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A MOUNTAIN
CALLED
NUN KUN

By BERNARD PIERRE

Translated by Nea Morin and Janet Adam Smith

LONDON
HODDER AND STOUGHTON

First printed 1955

Printed in Great Britain
for Hodder & Stoughton Limited
by Richard Clay and Company, Ltd.,
Bungay, Suffolk

Chapter

Il
III
IV
Vv
VI
VII
Vill
IX
x

CONTENTS

Preface by Brigadier Sir John Hunt

The Promised Land of the Himalaya

In the Heart of Kashmir

Nun Kun

The Col of Good Hope.

The Key to Nun .

The Apparition

Interlude

The Avalanche ;

Disappearance of Camp III . (

‘‘And now we can behold the ways that lead to
the gods”

Appendices

Glossary of Mountaineering Terms.

Sherpa Vocabulary

Page
ix
13
26
45
65

III
133
148

163

175
177

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

“Solid and imposing, Nun stood outlined against the blue “a

sky”. : ; ‘ ‘ : : : . 16
In Kashmir: a canal in Srinagar ; i e 7
Members of the Expedition with the ieee ‘ d «92
The Sherpas. ‘ ‘ : ‘ : é ; 98
The Marau valley. 4 ‘ ; ; ‘ . 36
The coolies contract, signed with their thumb-prints . 37
The village school at Hanzale_ . ‘ ; ; . 37
Crossing the Zaz Nal : ‘ : : : . 44
Coolies resting on the way to Base Camp. ; ~ 45
Fording the Mandik Sar . , : : : - 45
CampI . ; : 2 : : é ; . 80
The alternative routes to the west ridge of Nun . . 81
The south face of Nun : 3 : : ; . 96
On the way to Camp Il . : : i : . 97
Traversing under the Tower. : ‘ ‘ = OF
Claude Kogan in action . ‘ : ‘ : . 144
Breaking the trail. : ; ‘ . : . 145
Cutting steps . ; ; : ‘ ; ‘ . 145
Coming down from Nun . ‘ é ‘ : . 160

Pandit Nehru receives members of the Expedition . 161

vil

LIST OF MAPS AND DIAGRAMS

The Himalaya, showing the principal peaks .
The Approach .

The Nun Kun Massif

Panorama of Nun

Route from Camp III to the summit .

viii

Page

24-25
51
69
120-I2I

169

PREFACE

By BRIGADIER SIR JOHN HUNT, C.B.E., D.S.O.

I wELL remember July 6, 1935. In that year I had had my first
climbing season in the Himalaya; our party was on its way
back from the Karakoram, which lies beyond the north-western
extremity of that great range. We were walking up the Suru
Valley, a tributary of the Indus, its flanks bright with wild roses,
pink and saffron. Ahead of us rose twin snow peaks, separated
by a col, the one obviously easy, the other more formidable. I
turned to my companion James Waller with a question on my
lips; he had climbed in this area the year before. ‘“Those are
Nun and Kun,” said James. ‘‘Nun has not been climbed.
That’s the peak Jack Harrison and I tried last year, but it was
our first experience of the Himalaya and we made many
mistakes.”’

I knew what he meant. We ourselves had just failed to climb
a greater mountain still, Saltoro Kangri, 25,400 feet, driven
back by bad weather on the summit ridge when within goo feet
from the top. I had been responsible for the climbing plans,
and I, too, had made many mistakes. Saltoro Kangri is still
unclimbed.

And Nun itself remained inviolate for a further nineteen
years. Little could I foresee on that far-off day, as I admired it
from the warm, flower-scented valley, that its eventual con-
querors would be a French party, led by a man who was to
become my firm friend. I met Bernard Pierre in 1950, when I
was stationed at Fontainebleau and serving with the Allied Head-
quarters there. He was already well known in Alpine mountain-
eering circles, although he had only started to climb a few years
earlier. In fact, his magnificent exploits with Gaston Rébuffat
on the Via Cassin of the Badile, which he had completed in a
severe storm, followed closely by the West Face of the Aiguille
Noire de Peuterey, made a remarkable mountaineering début
and placed him, in the short space of two years, high among
the ranks of mountaineers.

During our stay in France, Bernard and other friends stayed

Preface

many weekends with my family at Fontaine-le-Port, and we
spent much time on the forest rocks, our allegiance happily
divided between the rival schools of the Cuvier and the Dame
Jeanne. In 1950 we met in the Oisans at the Promontoire Hut,
to celebrate July 14 by a traverse of the Meije. But the weather
decided otherwise and we had to content ourselves with the
traverse, a day or two later, of the Aiguille Dibona by the Voie
Boell. I look forward to the next occasion when we shall climb
together. Bernard has very many other climbing companions
in Britain, and is a member of the Alpine Club and the Climbers’
Club. There is no doubt that he has done much to strengthen
the close bonds of sympathy and admiration which link
mountaineers in both our countries.

The ascent of Nun by Bernard Pierre’s party, with no previous
experience of the Himalaya, was a remarkable tour de force. Con-
ditions in those great mountains differ profoundly from those
normally met with in the Alps or even the Andes, and few
parties have succeeded in their first attempt to climb a high and
difficult Himalayan peak. Yet Bernard and his companions are
outstanding mountaineers. Moreover, they had graduated from
the Alps via the Andes, and they had prepared their expedition
with meticulous care and attention to detail. But even more
than this, they brought to their adventure an enthusiasm, an
élan characteristic of their countrymen, an unconquerable spirit
which was so perfectly exemplified in the epic of Annapurna.
This spirit more than made up for lack of experience of the
tremendous problems of the Himalayan mountains; like
Maurice Herzog’s party, they swept aside the difficulties and
drove on to victory. And it is this infectious enthusiasm which
is typical of the author of this book.

It was indeed a happy circumstance that both he and I,
““Bleausards”’ both, should each have led successful expeditions
at either end of the Himalaya in 1953.

This book conveys much more than the bare facts of this
success. Not least among its merits is the fact that it describes
so vividly many of the minor events in the life of an expedition
and the surroundings through which it passes. Some of these
may be insignificant in themselves, but they are fascinating to
the reader who lacks any comparable experience and any know-

Preface

ledge of these strange and beautiful lands; equally, they awake
nostalgic memories in others who, like myself, once knew
Kashmir. Even more than this, Bernard Pierre has provided us
with an intensely human story: of his relations with his com-
panions, in particular with the Sherpas: his Gallic humour and
his delightfully Gallic unabashedness in revealing to us the
emotions of a man in great moments of trial and triumph.

CHAPTER I
THE PROMISED LAND OF THE HIMALAYA

Fasten your belts! No more smoking!

Our aeroplane droned above a city of a thousand lights;
in a quarter of an hour we should be landing at New Delhi.
India was to me a magic word which had enchanted my child-
hood, and my passion for mountains had since endowed it with
the crowning fascination of the Himalaya. I stubbed out my
cigarette, fastened my safety belt, and sat back in my seat. Then
I closed my eyes and dreamed the dream that had come true.

* * * * *

For every mountaineer dreams that one day he will visit his
promised land—the formidable backbone of Asia, which throws
up fourteen summits of over 8,000 metres (26,000 feet) and
innumerable unnamed summits of 7,000, 6,000, and 5,000
metres. It is an inexhaustible treasure-house, to which devotees
of mountaineering have come, for the last fifty years, to satisfy
their craving for fresh peaks. And the Himalaya will retain
their attraction for many generations to come, for up to the
present only five! 8,oo0-metre peaks have fallen to the moun-
taineer—Annapurna in 1950, Everest and Nanga Parbat in
1953, K2 and Cho Oyu in 1954. Nun, which we climbed in
August 1953, is 7,135 metres—23,410 feet. Coming after Anna-
purna and Chaukhamba, it was the third virgin Himalayan peak
to be climbed by a French expedition.

Organising expeditions like these is a formidable business,
and one might well suppose the climb itself to be the easiest
part. First the team has to be chosen, and although our expedi-
tion had the support of the Fédération Frangaise de la Montagne,
the Club Alpin Frangais, and the Comité Lyonnais de Himalaya
(who all helped us a lot), it was not a “‘national expedition’, and
this made it harder to organise. I had to try to find people who

1 Kanchenjunga and Makalu were both climbed in the summer of 1953.
( Translators.)

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

could be away from their jobs for two or three months, and who
could share the expenses. Very fortunately the manufacturers
of equipment and foodstuffs, and the transport companies, gave
us substantial help.

All the members of the expedition had, of course, to be ex-
perienced mountaineers, but it was essential that they should
have equable dispositions, for tempers are easily tried at high
altitude. One well-known Himalayan climber has confessed
to a strong desire at 22,000 feet to do his companions in—no
doubt with his ice-axe.

Somehow or other, in spite of hesitations and defections, I
succeeded in collecting a very sound team. More than once we
thought that everything would fall through, but we had plenty
of patience and plenty of perseverance, and finally the expedi-
tion took shape. There were seven of us: four French, two
Indian, and one Swiss. The French were Mme Claude Kogan,
thirty-four, one of the most remarkable mountaineers of to-day;
Jean Guillemin, forty, the Medical Officer; Michel Desorbay,
twenty-seven, and myself, thirty-three. All four of us had
climbed a lot in the Alps, and had then turned our attention
towards more distant and still virgin summits. Claude and
Jean had taken part in the Franco-Belgian expedition to the
Cordillera Blanca of the Andes in 1951, when Alpamayo (20,013
feet) was climbed, as well as other peaks. Claude Kogan and
Nicole Leininger had together made the ascent of Quitaraju,
19,685 feet—the world altitude record for a manless party.
Claude and Jean had been members of the first Franco-
American expedition to the Peruvian Andes, which I had orga-
nised in 1952. With four of our American friends, Claude and
I made the ascent of Salcantay (20,669 feet). The same year
Michel Desorbay—though very young—had led an expedition
to the mountains of Spitzbergen. As for myself, after I had
made a number of fine expeditions in the Alps with the cele-
brated guide Gaston Rébuffat—who is my friend as well as
master—I had taken part in 1951 in an expedition to the
Hoggar. Our Swiss member came to us out of the blue—he was
a Protestant pastor! I had heard from his friend, Marcel Kurz
—as knowledgeable about the Himalaya as he is about the Alps
—that a keen mountaineer, who had climbed a number of Swiss

The Promised Land of the Himalaya

“four-thousanders”’, had been living for the past three yearsat Leh
(10,826 feet) in Ladak, near the Tibetan frontier. He was per-
fectly acclimatised, for his pastoral journeys frequently obliged
him to cross passes of 16,000 fect, and his passion for mountain-
eering often took him up 20,000-foot peaks. So I asked Pierre
Vittoz to join us. He was delighted; he hastily furbished up his
climbing equipment, and hung a notice on the door of his house
saying: “The Pastor has gone to the presence of the Most High.”

Our two Indian friends were also accustomed to high alti-
tudes. One was the Air Force Lieutenant Nalni D. Jayal, who,
a few days after Everest had been climbed, had flown over it
and brought back some magnificent photographs and a film.
He had been recommended by my great friend John Hunt, and,
at twenty-six, had already taken part in two Indian expeditions
to the Himalaya: Trisul in 1951 and Kamet in 1952. It was
also in 1952 that our other officer, K. C. Johorey, twenty-seven,
a Captain in the Engineers, made his Himalyan debut—a bril-
liant one, for he went to 23,000 feet.

It was an odd party: two officers, a parson, a silk merchant,
a commercial agent, a doctor, and a designer of swim-suits.
Three nationalities, of widely different education and religions,
were to be united by their common love of mountains in order
to conquer a virgin “‘seven thousander’’.

Yes, but which seven thousander? Most of us could only
be away from our jobs during July, August, and September. At
this time of year the monsoon crosses the Himalyan chain and
snow falls in Sikkim, Nepal, and Garhwal, hence expeditions to
these regions generally take place between April and June. But
the farther north-west one goes the less violent the monsoon
becomes, particularly by the time it reaches Kashmir and the
Karakoram. So, as it was out of the question for us to go to Nepal,
and since there was no time to get permission to go to the
Karakoram, we were forced to find a seven-thousander in
Kashmir. I pored over maps and collected quantities of in-
formation. One day as I was turning over the pages of The
Mountain World I came upon the following passage by Marcel
Kurz, “Is it not remarkable that the only seven-thousand metre
peak in the 400 miles between Garhwal and Nanga Parbat—a
peak moreover which is only 60 miles from Srinagar, the capital

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

of Kashmir—should still be virgin?”? My heart leapt. I had
found our seven-thousander.

It was Nun, 7,135 metres, 23,410 feet, the highest peak of
the Nun Kun massif and the second highest summit in Kashmir
after Nanga Parbat. The neighbouring summit Kun, 23,246
feet, was climbed in 1913, in the middle of August—this seemed
most encouraging—by an Italian expedition. As for Nun, it
had remained inviolate in spite of two British expeditions, in
1934 and 1946, which had reached a height of about 21,325 feet
on the east ridge. “It is a marvellous pyramid of snow and ice,
a perfect cone rising from a mass of satellite peaks’, wrote
Nalni Jayal, who had often flown over it.

When we looked into the accounts of these previous attempts,
it became evident that the east ridge by no means offered the
best chances of success. Moreover, I was intrigued by the re-
marks of James Waller, one of the members of the 1934 expedi-
tion; remarks which he made, during a later reconnaissance in
1937, of the west ridge, which appeared to him more favourable.
I wrote to Pierre Vittoz, who had also been almost to the foot of
the west ridge, and he confirmed my impression that it was the
route to the summit.

But it was not enough just to discover our seven-thousander—
from conception to realisation is a long step, and there are plenty
of obstacles. Edison says that in every invention there is ten per
cent inspiration and ninety per cent perspiration. And in this
respect the organisation of our expedition ran true to form. The
difficulties of collecting the party had been overcome, but there
were many other jobs to be done. Jean, the M.O., would collect
the medical supplies, Claude Kogan would be in charge of the
commissariat, and Michel Desorbay of equipment. I had to
supervise generally, keep the weight of our material down, co-
ordinate the planning, and organise our meetings. As Claude
lived in Nice, Jean and myself in Paris, and Michel in Lyons, it
was in Lyons that we used to meet.

I pestered Nalni Jayal with impatient letters, for I had asked
him to deal with all questions of transport in India as well as
with relations with the military authorities. I pestered Henri
Dumont, too, secretary at the French Embassy, and an old col-
lege friend of mine, who was to have joined us. He would look

| 7

“Solid and imposing, Nun stood outlined against the blue sky”

In Kashmir: a canal in Srinagar.

The Promised Land of the Himalaya

after all diplomatic problems, and they were not the least of our
troubles.

There was one other major problem: the Sherpas. No expedi-
tion is possible without the co-operation of those admirable men
who are blessed with a fine intuitive intelligence, an astonishing
resistance, and an endearing devotion, and who have all the
climber’s love of mountains. So I wrote to the Himalayan Club
at Darjeeling; the answer came that Ang Tharkay, the Sirdar or
chief Sherpa of the French expedition to Annapurna, was will-
ing to accept our offer and to recruit seven other Sherpas. I met
him some five months later—in Paris, where he had come for
the showing of the Annapurna film—and he then confirmed his
willingness to join us. This was a trump card indeed, for along
with Tensing, Ang Tharkay is considered to be the finest Sirdar

oing.

: Our great problem was to obtain the necessary authorisation
to visit the district. The Himalaya are near enough to the
Tibetan frontier, whether on the Chinese or Russian side, to
make the Indian authorities think long before they agree to
grant a safe-conduct; and there is, too, all the political unrest in
Kashmir. We had many ups and downs during the negotiations,
and I suffered from alternate fits of optimism and depression.
I used rather to dread opening letters and cables from Henri
Dumont and Nalni Jayal, who both did so much to obtain this
precious authorisation. Finally, thanks to the efforts of Count
Stanislas Ostrorog, the French Ambassador, and to the under-
standing of Pandit Nehru—he has a keen interest in mountain-
eering and on our return from Kashmir did us the honour of
receiving us at lunch—the authorisation arrived just a month
before our departure. We had held firm during this trial of
nerves and our preparations had continued as if nothing was
amiss, but we had begun to be very anxious.

I am not likely to forget the day when a secretary from the
Indian Embassy telephoned: “The visas are ready for you.”
As I drove to fetch them I was fairly jumping with excitement,
and of course I went slap across a red light. A whistle blew; I
stopped; and when a policeman came to ask for my papers, I
told him the story. Did my plan to climb a high peak in Kash-
mir give me the right to ignore the traffic regulations on the

B 17

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

Chaillot hill? I wasn’t too sure, but the representative of the
law seemed all in favour of this view: ‘‘If you are going to the
Himalaya, that’s quite a different matter.’’ We chatted a few
moments and then he became confidential: ““The wife and my-
self and our two kids are interested in explorers. We even go to
lectures. We’ll watch out for you. Good luck!”

Good luck indeed!

These reminiscences were cut short by the jolt of landing.
Here we were at Palam Airport! Claude, Jean, and I just looked
at each other, we couldn’t speak for excitement. As the cabin
door opened we were stifled by the damp, stuffy heat of the
monsoon. Slowly, and still half-dazed, we climbed down from
the plane. There were our friends, in tropical kit: Michel
Desorbay, who had arrived from Colombo two days before (he
had come by sea, in charge of the expedition’s baggage) ; Henri
and Francoise Dumont, Nalni Jayal (in trousers, white dress
shirt, and bow tie), Serge de Gunzbourg, of the France-Presse
agency.

We wondered what the army of newspaper-men and photo-
graphers were there for, until we suddenly realised they were
waiting for us. Questions rattled out. Where exactly was Nun
Kun? Had it already been attempted? And so on. I answered
them all and ended up by saying: ‘‘We are very happy to be
realising this long-cherished plan, and to be making up a team
with two Indian Himalayan climbers and a Swiss mountaineer.
Mountaineering knows no frontiers, and if we reach the summit
of Nun we will raise the flag of the United Nations.” After these
lofty sentiments the reporters took flight like a flock of sparrows.
“Since the conquest of Everest India has gone mad about
mountaineering,” Nalni Jayal explained with a smile.

While the customs officials were hard at work, Henri Dumont
gave me the latest news. “Pierre Vittoz nearly couldn’t make it.
He was told he couldn’t leave Ladak, but by good luck he had
made the acquaintance at Leh of the Minister of National
Defence, and he brought the matter to the notice of Pandit
Nehru, and it’s all been arranged.’ We breathed again. An
expedition is horribly like a steeplechase. Until you have
cleared the last fence...

““Vittoz is still at Leh,” Henri continued. “We must tell him

The Promised Land of the Himalaya

to meet us at Doda, which will be the starting point of the
approach march.”

“Fine. We'll send him a wire. And what about the Sherpas?”’

“They left Darjeeling yesterday, and are on their way. I had
begun to be anxious, for we had not been able to get in touch
with them since their return from Dhaulagiri.” }

‘And Johorey?”’

““He’ll be here to-morrow.”

“Good show! And what about yourself, Henri?”

“T can’t leave the Embassy.”

I suppose things had been going too well to last, but it was
very sad to hear that this friend to whom we owed so much
would not be able to come along with us.

* * * * *

Our departure from New Delhi had been fixed for July 11,
so we had only three days in which to complete the final formali-
ties, make our last purchases, and attend receptions. It was all
a bit of a rush, but we did manage to spare a little time to visit
New Delhi and to admire some of the beauties of the old city.

New Delhi is a fine town, large, airy, and laid out geometric-
ally with straight main roads, wide avenues with grass verges,
roundabouts which all look exactly alike, and roads bordered
with bungalows. It is cold and classically Anglo-Saxon, and it
reminded me of Washington. Moreover, New Delhi, like Wash-
ington, is an administrative town. It is the seat of the govern-
ment of the young Republic of India, whose area is equal to
Europe (without Russia) and whose population exceeds that of
the entire American continent.

The heart of the capital is the former palace of the Viceroy,
‘an impressive government building. On either side, two build-
ings that were formerly occupied by the viceregal secretariat
now house the administrative offices. A fourth building, cir-
cular and surrounded by columns, is reserved for the legislative
assembly. The ensemble, of red sandstone and white marble, is
a majestic compromise between eastern and western architec-
ture. The other main centre of the town is Connaught Circus,

* Ang Tharkay, Kami, Ang Phuter, and Gyaldzen had been on the Swiss
expedition to Dhaulagiri, 26,810 feet.

zo,

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

where the shops are to be found and the banks have their
head offices.

New Delhi is not India. It reminds one rather of those
elderly English ladies who have lived a long while in India. In
contrast Old Delhi teems with life—smelly, jabbering, noisy,
endless crowds. It is the embodiment of the East—its history,
its traditions, its pomp and glory, its conquests and rebellions,
its religious wars and massacres, the rise and fall of its empires.

Nothing could be more enchanting than the Chandni Chowk,
the “‘silver street’’, the main thoroughfare of Old Delhi. It is
a strange mixture of old and new: the most up-to-date cars,
horse-drawn tongas, cycles, tramcars with clusters of people
clinging on, slow-moving bullock-carts, men, women, and child-
ren crossing the road, threading their way along the sidewalk,
yelling, singing, praying, begging. And the sacred cows, so
leisurely and unconcerned, philosophically surveying the kalei-
doscopic scene. The Indian, it appears, does not care to look
like his fellow-men, so one finds every variety of costume—
turbans, pyjamas, long tunics, shirts with tails hanging outside
the trousers, saris, European dress, the fez or shaven heads, shoes
from the West, sandals from the East, bracelets on ankle or wrist,
veiled faces, nose-rings, and different colour spots on the fore-
heads denoting the various religions.

Leading off the Chandni Chowk, and no longer laid out
geometrically, is a maze of winding,lanes edged with rows of
stalls displaying merchandise of every kind and colour: fruit,
jewels, embroidery, paintings, ivories, pottery, copper vases,
flowers, materials, incense, and goodness knows what else. And
the crowds disgorged by the narrow “Street”? pour down these
alleys in a rushing torrent of humanity which carries all before
It.

It was the Great Mogul, Shah Jehan, who carved the Chandni
Chowk through the old town. The Hindus have a great admira-
tion for this Mahommedan, and aver that the blood of their own
race ran in his veins. To him Old Delhi owes its great Mosque;
at once majestic and delicate with its marble domes and mina-
rets, it dominates the town. Every day at prayer-time thousands
of the faithful gather together in its great interior courtyard to
prostrate themselves towards Mecca.

The Promised Land of the Himalaya

It was he, too, who built the Red Fort, encircled by a rampart
of red sandstone walls which every evening are set aglow by the
light of the setting sun. The Red Fort recalls the stories of the
Thousand and One Nights: white marble rooms, walls set with
precious stones, carved fountains and pools, towers of elegant
tracery. The public auditorium reminds one of the wealth and
magnificence of ancient times, and the private audience cham-
ber is built of such fine white marble that it looks almost trans-
parent. The Mongols used to sing its praises: “If there is such
a thing as an earthly paradise, here it is, here it is.”

No, certainly Old Delhi and New Delhi have little in com-
mon, save a damp, depressing heat. At night one sees knots of
people sleeping in the open—then Delhi looks like some strange
gigantic hospital.

On July 11—the day set for our departure—we breakfasted at
the Cecil Hotel, the rendezvous of Himalayan climbers. The
proprietor is Robert Holtz, himself the secretary of the Delhi
section of the Himalayan Club, whose enthusiasm is equalled
only by his kindness.

The dining-room was like an oven, and the wretched fans
dispiritedly beat the damp, heavy air. We were still half asleep,
for we had been up very late at the reception given for us the
evening before by M. de Marolles, the chargé d’ affaires, in the
absence of the French Ambassador. There we had met General
Williams, commanding the Indian Engineers, who did so much
to help our expedition, and also our future companion K. C.
Johorey. I wrote of him in my note-book: “A lanky fellow.
Very pleasant. Talks like a machine gun. Full of go. Things
must hum when he’s around.” Johorey immediately became
Big Jo to us.

We drank our tea philosophically, for we had already been in
India three days, and we thought of the three months during
which it would take the place of the good wine of France. We
couldn’t help being a bit nervous, for the Sherpas had not yet
arrived! We should have to postpone the start... . At this
moment an Indian servant brought a message that I was wanted
on the telephone.

“Hullo, Bernard, Henri speaking. They’re here.”

An hour later our Sherpas arrived. We gazed at them

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

blissfully, like children to whom Father Christmas has promised:
“If you are good, one day you shall go to the Himalaya and I
will give you some Sherpas.’? Our future companions looked
very weary, for they had been travelling four days and four
nights; the journey from Darjeeling is quite an expedition in
itself. They had to go as far down as Calcutta, and from there
travel almost right across India, which was sweltering in the heat
of the monsoon.

“All right, Ang Tharkay?”’

“All right,” he replied, nodding his head and smiling. It was
grand to find him just as simple and unassuming as ever. His
triumphant visit to Paris had not in the least altered his modest
bearing—proof of great strength of character. The rest of the
party were delighted with his open face, keen eyes, and quick
intelligence. He introduced his Sherpas: Pemba Norbu, Sir
John Hunt’s personal Sherpa on Everest, with his plaited hair
hanging down his back over an outsize pair of white shorts, or
rather shorts that had been white on leaving Darjeeling; Pa
Norbu, quiet, with narrow, slanting eyes, a true Tibetan type,
who had been with the Lyons expedition to Nanda Devi in 1951;
the cheerful Ang Phuter, Ang Tharkay’s brother; Gyaldzen,
with sparkling mischievous eyes; and finally Kami, aged twenty-
one, the Benjamin of the party.

*‘And now go and rest: you need it. This evening at six
o’clock we leave for the station. Atcha?” 4

“Atcha!”

We still had some shopping to do and letters to write; then
in the evening we left the Cecil Hotel for the station in torrential
rain. We had heard of the monsoon; now we knew what it was
like. The station was as crowded as St. Lazare in the evening
rush hour. But the suburban travellers here would not have
passed unnoticed on the train for Bois Colombes. The sacred
cows withstood the rush stolidly, never budging an inch and
holding up passengers and taxis. Nalni Jayal discreetly ex-
plained to a policeman who we were, and he stopped the traffic
to let our two tons of stuff, divided up into a dozen containers
and six cases—not counting our personal luggage—through to
the platform. Johorey had commandeered porters, and he kept

1 Hindustani for ‘‘agreed’’.

The Promised Land of the Himalaya

them hard at it, issuing orders in a guttural voice. The Sherpas
kept an eye on the procession. Ang Tharkay, to whom we had
confided the eighty-pound case of rupees in coin, hugged our
treasure close.

The heat was just as oppressive and humid as ever, and inside
the station the smoke from the engines made the atmosphere
even more difficult to breathe. The platforms were littered with
people, some sleeping on the ground in clusters, others attending
to their feet, eating, shouting to each other, singing, or yelling.
Soldiers slowly moved along with their bundles, beggars with
their wooden bowls, sellers of fruit, sweets and chewing-gum,
newspaper men yelling the latest news, women with babies in
arms and others frantically clutching their mothers’ saris. Above
the din could be heard the gasping of the engines and the
ringing of bells.

At a quarter-past eight a whistle blew: the train for Pathankot
and the Himalaya was about to leave. On the platform to wish
us good luck were Henri and Francoise Dumont, Serge de
Gunzbourg and General Williams—full of good wishes for
Johorey and Nalni Jayal, whom he had taken to Kamet the
year before.

The train started. Handkerchiefs waved, and continued to
wave until they disappeared in a cloud of dust. Some words of
H. W. Tilman’s came to mind: ‘A man who is bent on getting
to the Himalaya will find ways and means.”

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THE HIMALAYA, SHO’ THE PRINCIPAL PEAKS

CHAPTER II
IN THE HEART OF KASHMIR

It was still raining torrentially when in the early hours of the
following morning the train drew up at Pathankot, the terminus
of the East Punjab Railway. Equipment, Sherpas, and sahibs
were stowed away in two trucks and a station-wagon, and we
started off for Udhampur and Jammu, in the north. Every-
thing had been laid on for us by General Williams, and indeed
all along our route we were taken care of by the Indian Engi-
neers, who had been given orders to help us. .

We made good time along the magnificent tarmacked Srina-
gar road. Srinagar is the Venice of India, for the River Jhelum
flows through it, and all round are lakes which at sunset look
like highly coloured magazine illustrations. This enchanting
place, with its peaceful house-boats, is a summer refuge for
wealthy Indians and visitors who want to escape the rigours of
the monsoon.

An hour after leaving we were stopped by the customs, for we
were about to enter the State of Jammu Kashmir. Kashmir
proper, which lies farther to the north, is the home of Pandit
Nehru; it has four million inhabitants in an area the size of
Great Britain, and it has always been the haunt of philosophers,
painters, and poets, who have hailed it as a new earthly para-
dise. This magnificent country of lakes, rivers, valleys, forests,
glaciers, and mountains has often been compared to Switzer-
land; but it is a Switzerland of Himalayan, that is to say gigan-
tic, proportions. In Kashmir lies one of the highest summits of
the world—Nanga Parbat, 26,642 feet high. And of course,
Nun Kun!

The famous valley of Kashmir, eighty miles long and twenty-
five miles broad, is called ‘‘an emerald set in pearls’’, for it is
always green, and for nine months of the year its mountains are
snow covered. Naturally this valley has a legend. It is said that
once upon a time it was inhabited by a devil who lived on
human flesh. A wise man called Kashyapa was much affected

In the Heart of Kashmir

by this misfortune, and he prayed that it might be amended.
His prayer was granted by the goddess Sharika, who disguised
herself in order to take the devil unawares and heave a great
stone at him. The stone was transformed into a hill, and the
devil was buried under it. Then Kashyapa made a hole in
the hill and drained the waters into a great lake, and thus the
valley became habitable. Kashyapa had made an excellent job
of it.

Since then the valley has known many vicissitudes. As far
back as the third century B.c. the celebrated Asoka penetrated
into Kashmir, which had first been colonised by the Indo-
Aryans, introduced Buddhism, and founded the original city of
Srinagar. For many centuries the Hindu and Buddhist faiths
were practised side by side. But, under the influence of the
philosophers, Kashmir again became the cradle of civilisation
and of Indo-Brahman culture. In the eighth century Lalita-
ditya, one of the greatest sovereigns to govern the country,
conquered the neighbouring territories of the Punjab and Cen-
tral Asia, and Kashmir became part of a great Empire. At the
end of the twelfth century the valley came under Islamic
influence and, until the end of the sixteenth century, remained
one of the most important centres of Indo-Persian civilisation.
For the next two hundred years Kashmir was controlled by the
Moguls, to whom we owe the archzological treasures in which
the country is so rich. From the middle of the eighteenth to the
beginning of the nineteenth century it remained under the yoke
of the Kings of Kabul. Then, in 1819, the Sikhs took possession,
but only for a short time, for in 1848 Kashmir was sold for a
handful of gold to the Maharajah of Gulabsingh. Just a century
later Kashmir became a democracy, and its present status causes
a good many headaches to the United Nations, Pakistan, and
India.

* * * * *

The customs formalities were completed fairly quickly, thanks
to a letter of recommendation from the Prime Minister of
Kashmir. We continued on our way across a great plain where
the colours had been revived by the monsoon, which every sum-
mer is hailed all over India as a deliverance. The torrential rain

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

had turned to a fine drizzle, from which emerged, phantom-
like, strangely-shaped trees and small peasants’ houses with
pointed roofs. Here and there a yoke of humped oxen could be
seen drawing a plough with a barefooted ploughman bent over
it, wearing a white loin-cloth and a linen tunic over his shoul-
ders. Two hours later we halted again. But our letter of recom-
mendation was no use this time: the road was cut by a great
flood.

About a hundred military lorries and tourist charabancs were
held up; with oriental impassivity the occupants waited for the
situation to improve, and so did we. However, we had a pleas-
ant surprise, for a big fellow driving a powerful Dodge came
splashing through the water to present himself:

““As he didn’t see you arrive, General Attal, who commands
the base at Udhampur, sent me to find you. First of all I will
take you across the river, then go back and tow your station-
wagon. Your two lorries will follow immediately.”

And so we crossed the river in safety, but we were most im-
pressed by the fury of the flood waters. Then the Dodge went
back to fetch the station-wagon. We were not very happy about
this operation, and we kept our eyes glued to our equipment.

The crowds on either side of the river were delighted with the
unexpected show we put on for them. Right in the middle of
the river the Dodge stalled; the engine of the station-wagon was
under water; slowly the car drifted, carried along by the force
of the current. This was our first Himalayan set-back! The
driver of the Dodge did not lose his head: he shortened and
tightened the tow-rope of our little van, started up his engine
again, got under way and reached the bank safe and sound. It
was the same with our two lorries, whose engines were half
choked with water. We heaved a sigh of relief.

General Attal had invited us to lunch; but in the event we
only reached Udhampur the following morning, in time for
breakfast, after having spent the night with another general.
Never in our lives had we been received by so many generals in
so short a time. The congenial commandant was full of admira-
tion for our “‘daring venture’’, and he made us free of any in-

formation that might be of use. Jean chatted with the doctor
attached to the base.

In the Heart of Kashmir

“Took out for typhus,” he warned. ‘You will be passing
through an area where it is very prevalent. Don’t sleep on the
grass. Don’t stay in native houses. You must take very careful
precautions: gloves, trousers tight round the ankles, neck well
protected. Spray your clothes with this stuff.”

“Ask him,” I whispered to Jean, “if we ought to wear gas-
masks as well.”

At the end of our interview I gave the bottles of germicide to
a Sherpa who asked:

“Ts it to drink, sahib?”’

We said good-bye to General Attal and our caravan pro-
ceeded on its way. Soon after Udhampur, the country altered.
Valleys succeeded the plains, and were in turn succeeded by
hills which became progressively higher and steeper. The road
now wound among foothills, and we came to Batote, a delightful
small village perched 6,000 feet up among clumps of fir-trees.
The air was fresh and a light breeze stirred the trees. Now we
were at last quit of the Turkish-bath atmosphere of the plains,
we came to life again.

I hurried to the village post office expecting to find a telegram
from Pierre Vittoz, and sure enough there was word from him
that the Leh-Srinagar plane had been held up by bad weather
and that he would join us later. But I was not worried about
him. For two years he had been trying for Nun; and this
time I knew he would do his utmost to bag it, and would be
catching up with us soon. I left two messages for him, one at the
post office and the other with the pastor, with directions about
our route and plans.

And now forward to Doda: the last stage by car. On the
outskirts of the little village we left the main Srinagar road and
changed direction from north to east.

Originally we had thought of making for the capital of
Kashmir, and thence following the traditional route taken by
expeditions to Nun Kun: the Zoji La, Dras, and Suru. But at
the last moment permission was refused us for this route, which,
since the partition of India, has taken on a “strategic” character.
It lies near Pakistan (as, moreover, does Nun, and this
constituted an added source of difficulty). So be it! As
we could not approach the mountain from the north,

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

we would do so from the south. We would carve out our own
route.

From Batote to Doda we followed the Chenab for several
hours—a powerful river whose turbid waters were swollen by
the monsoon rains. We were tremendously impressed by the
already Himalayan proportions of the country: everything—
gorges, valleys, and mountains—is on such an entirely different
scale from Europe. At nightfall the road came to an end: we
had reached Doda.

It was from here, sixty miles south of the Nun Kun massif as
the crow flies, that we should soon begin the long and round-
about march—nearly 120 miles of it—which would eventually
bring us to the foot of our mountain.

* * * * *

Doda is a small township typical of Jammu Kashmir. It is
half Mahommedan, half Hindu. The Mahommedans have
established themselves on the right bank of the river, the Hindus
on the left. History explains this state of affairs, for the Arab
invasion spread from the north-west. The Hindus wear small
ear-rings and plait their hair into a short pigtail which hangs
down at the back of their heads. They have clean-cut features
and no hair on their faces) The Mahommedans are heavier
featured, and though there are, naturally, many resemblances
with the Arabs, they have certain peculiarities of their own—
long noses, black eyes, and enormous protruding ears.

The population are artisans and cultivators (rice, wheat, and
maize), and their livestock are cows, brown oxen, black méhas
(humped oxen), sheep, and scraggy hens that wander about the
streets. From the milk of their animals they make ghee, a sort of
butter which is used in the preparation of rice and chick-peas
called dal. It is also used in making their staple diet, chapattis,
flat cakes made of wheat flour called atta.

There were no processions or dances to celebrate July 14 for
us Frenchmen! We spent the day unpacking our two tons of
gear and dividing it up into 130-pound loads for the mules,
which could come half the way with us, thus saving us time and
expense, for a mule carries twice as much as a coolie and makes
much longer marches. We were watched by an inquisitive

In the Heart of Kashmir

crowd of villagers who had left their fields and stalls to come
and see the show. They squatted round us, elbows on knees,
arms sticking out in front, often as though to receive alms. They
looked longingly at unknown objects such as skis, ice-axes, ruck-
sacks, and ropes. What was it all about? What had these sahibs
come for?

While Claude Kogan, Jean Guillemin, and Michel Desorbay
got the loads ready, K. C. Johorey went to change our eighty
pounds of rupees in coin—we had thought the natives would
not accept any other kind of payment—into notes. This opera-
tion took all day. We had to hire a mule and go right up the
hill-side where the local Treasury was situated. Then Nalni
Jayal and I negotiated for nearly three hours with the authori-
ties over various problems. Mules? We could have about forty.
Muleteers? We were to give them six rupees—about nine
shillings—per day per beast. Postal services? These would be
maintained by porters or else by forest guards, who would carry
messages to the nearest post office. Food supplies? We could
live off the land, and every facility would be given us for buying
food for our future coolies. The deputy-commissioner was a
charming and distinguished man, but the nature of our enter-
prise rather alarmed him, for this was the first time an expedi-
tion had been through the country He dictated a detailed letter
to his secretary incorporating all these points, and he ended his
statement with the following words: “‘The men must be well
paid, for the journey is fraught with a thousand difficulties and
is terribly dangerous.”’ As he took leave of us he added a final
recommendation:

‘Look out for leopards, bears, and poisonous snakes.’’ What
with typhus as well, we seemed to have a fair number of
enemies!

Towards the end of the evening, while we were all in a shed
coping with the loads, a big, fair-haired man with an enormous
rucksack, a naval kit-bag under his right arm, and an ice-axe in
his left hand, appeared in the doorway: our pastor, Pierre Vit-
toz! After brief introductions Vittoz explained how he had
found us:

“First of all I took a military plane from Leh to Srinagar.
This startled everybody, because the plane is the only link

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

between the capitals of Ladak and Kashmir, and civilians aren’t
allowed on it except in very special circumstances. Then I
hitched on lorries from Srinagar to Batote. Finally, I took a
jeep from Batote to Doda. And here I am,” he concluded in his
slight Vaudois accent, which came in for a good deal of teasing
from us French. It was clear that the pastor was a thoroughly
good sort, and we were all delighted. The party was now
complete.

Next day we left Doda and went on to Thatri about twenty
miles away. For two-thirds of the way the road was fit for cars,
and the deputy-commissioner very kindly offered us the use of
his jeep. So we decided to be lazy and not leave until some time
after the coolies and the Sherpas. It was not a good idea, for we
were Caught in the midday heat. At every stream we stopped to
splash ourselves and fill our hats with water, which we put
straight on our heads so as to wet ourselves all over, but the
resulting coolness was only temporary and half an hour later our
clothes were dry again. Ignorant Europeans that we were, we
narrowly escaped sun-stroke, and we arrived at Thatri half dead
with thirst and completely exhausted, for we had made a long
and unnecessary detour into the bargain. It is at moments hike
this that one begins to wonder if one was really made for long
marches, and whether the call of adventure heard one night as
one Sat by the fire in slippers, with a pipe, has not been a snare
and a delusion.

There was a welcoming bungalow just alongside the river. At
last we cooled off a bit as we drank pints of tea which the Sher-
pas, who had arrived long before us, had brewed up. Ang
Tharkay and his friends, all smiles, ministered to our unquench-
able thirst, and did all they could to make our halting-place
comfortable. These little fellows are really wonderfully thought-
ful and devoted. Nevertheless, we spent a restless night, a prey
to the incessant onslaughts of mosquitoes. Apparently, too, so
the others bitterly complained, I woke them up with my night-
mares about serpents! Well, that was the fault of the deputy-
commissioner.

Warned by experience, we left early, at 6 a.m, for Kishtwar,
just over twenty miles away: it would be our longest march.
Fer hours on end we made our way up the valley of the Chenab.

Members of the Expedition with the Sherpas. Back row: Michel Desorbay, Dr.

Jean Guillemin, Pierre Vittoz. Middle row: Bernard Pierre and Claude Rogan

with Ang Tharkay between them. Inset: Lieutenant N. D. Jayal and Captain
Kh. C. Fohorey.

Aami. Ang Phuler.

fs ”
Dx

Ang Tharkay. Pa Norbu

In the Heart of Kashmir

The rushing torrent swept all before it; when it came to an
insurmountable obstacle it took avoiding action with a sudden
bend almost at right-angles, and then resumed its dead straight
course: a remarkable example of Himalayan force. Kashmir
scenery is very fine—green pastures, multi-coloured orchards,
plantations of green poplars, and yellow paddy fields.

As we went along, we chatted with Pierre Vittoz. His life at
Leh, so near to Tibet and to Nun, interested us all greatly, we
peppered him with questions:

“How long have you been there?”

“Three years.”

*fAre you married?”

‘Yes, and I have a son.”’

“But your wife must get frightfully bored?”

‘Far from it—we are tremendously busy. We have started a
small weaving industry and we edit a paper. My wife also acts
as nurse. In the evenings we often play chess and bridge. The
Ladakis play very well. Time passes quickly for me. I am kept
hard at it, for as an evangelist I must visit my flock. I get around
on horseback as a rule—though there is a good deal of walking
too.”

“What about food?”

“It is mainly based on various types of flour, and it’s a bit
monotonous. I thought I was dreaming when I saw the stock
of tinned foods you have brought. And I propose to do them
justice.”

“Yes, we'd already noticed that! How do you dress as a
rule?”

“Like a Tibetan: a long woollen robe down to the ankles with
wide sleeves.”

“Ts it cold at Leh?”

“Very cold, but one gets accustomed to it.”

“And you speak Tibetan, of course?”

“Fluently. In fact, I intend to compile a Tibetan-English
grammar, as there isn’t one.”

“So you’ll be able to understand the Sherpas perfectly. It’s
lucky for us to have an interpreter of your standard—it’ll make

things much easier. By the way, can you give us an explanation
of the Sherpas’ names?”

- 33

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

“Yes. Ang Tharkay means the strength (Ang) that ensues
from deliverance (Tharkay). Pemba Norbu is the jewel (Norbu)
born on Saturday (Pemba). And Pa Norbu, the jewel born on
Friday (Pa being an abbreviation of Passang). Gyaldzen means
the symbol of victory. Ang Phuter means much the same as Ang
Tharkay. About Kami I can’t say; it is possibly not Tibetan but
Mongol. Otherwise it would mean ‘good fortune’.”

We then went on to ask Pierre the meaning of Nun Kun.

“The name may have several meanings: salt rock, the crystal
willow—owing to the fact that Nun Kun resembles a pyramid
of snow and ice. Or more likely it may mean the Lord of Suru,
for, seen from Suru, it dominates the landscape.”

Pierre was a fascinating character. The Sherpas quickly took
him to their hearts and called him “‘Nono’’, little brother, and
he soon became “‘Nono”’ to the rest of us too. Thanks to him we
began to understand something about mysterious Tibet: and
many a time on the approach march, at Base Camp, and at the
high camps, he delighted us with his knowledge and his wit.

To-day, as we chatted with him, the miles flew by—we were
already half-way. We stopped for a meal beneath the shade of
some trees where there were masses of monkeys with black faces,
grey silky bodies, and black curling tails half as long again as
themselves. The largest and most serious sat on the stones, while
the young gambolled about on invisible branches. We laughed
at them, and they laughed at us. We made a gesture and they
copied it. We were just like children at the Zoo, and in the end
we weren’t sure who were the monkeys—we or they. Pemba
Norbu rocked with laughter and, all in the spirit of the game,
was just going to pick up a stone to throw at his partners in fun.
Luckily—for the monkeys far outnumbered the men—we were
just in time to stop him.

Regretfully we left the monkey valley and entered a vast
funnel—in the language of geographers, “‘a cone of dejection”-—
which was covered all the way up with square terraced rice
fields. The sun was reflected in the water in which men, women,
and children were working knee-deep. For over two hours we
made our way through this green and yellow sea watched by
astonished peasants, who wondered what all this army of mules,
muleteers, Tibetans, and sahibs was up to. We asked them

In the Heart of Kashmir

where Kishtwar was. They pointed to a big plateau, and told
us we must follow the winding path for four miles. This lap
seemed endless, and we were tired out when at last, at about
four o’clock in the afternoon, we reached the gates of the town.
Our arrival had been announced, and a bevy of children came
out to meet us and gazed at us in utter astonishment.

The centre of the town was an impressive sight. The whole
population were gathered in the streets, at the windows, or on
the roof-tops. Proud as conquistadors, we passed by, acknow-
ledging with dignified gestures the “‘Salaam sahibs!”’ of the in-
habitants. There was no need to ask the way to the rest-house—
the Grand Hotel of the place. These rest-houses were built by
the British, at the end of each day’s march: one has, of course,
to take one’s own food, but they are comfortable enough for the
night. A crowd of men, women, old people, and children led us
towards it, and once arrived the police would protect us from
the natives, who wished to get a close-up of the explorers. No
man is a prophet in his own land, and one has to go a long way
to receive such touching homage.

After the first sensation aroused by our triumphal march had
subsided, I questioned the local big-wigs. How far could we
continue with our mules? Some declared we could go right to
the foot of Nun, but they had never been there themselves!
Others said that a few stages farther there would no longer be a
mule-path and that we should have to engage porters. There
was no knowing who was right. We had to come to a decision
about flour for the porters, for after Kishtwar the country would
be too poor for us to buy any quantity on the spot. In any case it
was now too late in the day for business, and a rest day in the
cool air of Kishtwar—the village stands at about 5,500 feet—
would do us a lot of good and allow us to explore the situation
at leisure. We couldn’t afford any mistakes, for a false estimate
might have extremely serious consequences.

Next day, after much calculation and hesitation, a policy of
caution was adopted—‘‘neither too much, nor too little’. It
was Gandhi who said, ‘‘My love of absolute truth has itself
taught me the beauty of compromise.” The amount required
was fixed at eight hundredweight of wheat flour. One porter
consumes just over two pounds of flour per day for his chapattis,

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

but one had to have a good margin of safety over and above
that. If necessary, we should certainly be able to supplement
our store a bit from the village where we recruited the porters.
The amount of atta needed depended on the number of miles
remaining after the point at which we had to take on coolies for
transport. Unfortunately we were unable to get any exact idea
of the situation, for the local authorities all had different views.
There were also other questions to settle: for instance, the
reception at the Kishtwar post office of the messages sent by the
expedition, and the settling of the muleteers’ wages—they were
fixed at six rupees per day per mule (the men from Doda now
went back). The discussions went on endlessly with our two
officers and Pierre Vittoz, who also spoke perfect English, taking
a In the evening we were all quite dazed after so much talk-
ng. Jean was even more tired than the rest of us, for the sick
people of the town came to consult him—and there were plenty
of them. One of them, an old chap of seventy-six, complained
that he suffered from heart disease and chronic constipation. It
was a bit late to start curing him!

* * * * *

On July 18 we left Kishtwar with an extra seven mules to
carry the eight hundredweight of flour, and an official of the
Public Treasury whom the deputy-commissioner of Doda had
delegated to go with us. This inspector had orders to help us in
our dealings with the people and with the local authorities. The
weather was magnificent but terribly hot. Would we be out of
range of the monsoon? During my correspondence with Pierre
Vittoz, he had written that the approach march would be made
in rain, and the ascent in the sun. Well, as long as it was not
going to be the other way round...

At the foot of the plateau on which Kishtwar is situated, we
came to the Chenab once more. We crossed it and followed the
banks of one ofits tributaries, the Marau, which runs due north.
An increasingly magnificent view unfolded before us during the
march of seventeen miles which eventually brought us to
Ikhale (5,741 feet).

The Marau had carved a deep bed like a trench for its foam-
ing waters, and on either bank rose mighty walls dotted here and

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In the Heart of Kashmir

there with giant conifers. By its wildness the scene reminded one
of a valley in the Grisons, but here everything was magnified
three or four times. Nature is no longer on a human scale:
Jean Guillemin said he felt like a Walt Disney character, lost in
a giants’ world.

The following day, between Ikhale and Lopara (6,069 feet),
the country had completely changed. This fifteen-mile march
lay through typical sub-Himalayan scenery. The flanks of
the mountain at whose foot flowed the Marau were covered
with luxuriant vegetation, and for hours we went through
forests rich with every kind of tree—pines, maples, willows,
sycamores, elms, larches, plane-trees, firs, oaks, cedars. It was
pure delight to walk in this cool paradise, filled with the song
of birds.

But next morning, before starting for Hanzale, the muleteers
struck, thus momentarily putting an end to our enchantment.
But what expedition has not had its strike? Alleging the undue
length of the last two marches, the muleteers refused to continue
unless they received double pay for them. They made a fine
row, shouting at the tops of their voices and waving their arms.
It was a pity we hadn’t a tape-recorder! I knew perfectly well
that we should have to make some concession, but, all the same,
I wanted to limit the amount. The muleteers unloaded their
animals. But that didn’t worry us unduly, for we knew they
would not leave us without first receiving their pay.

Then I gave it to be understood that we would send them
back and take porters. (We should have been very worried if
we had had to begin using our flour so soon!) An hour went by,
with talking on both sides; watching out of the corner of our
eyes, we tried to guess which way the wind was blowing in the
ranks of the muleteers. There appeared to be a certain waver-
ing, and I took advantage of it to propose that we should pay
them double, six rupees, for the rest day at Kishtwar, a day that
by rights should only have been paid at the rate of three rupees.
In this way the sahibs would not lose face, as the increase would
not concern the pay for the actual marches. After fresh palavers
the muleteers accepted this offer, saddled the mules, and
started loading up. However, they insisted that the last two
days’ pay should be given to them on the spot. Were they

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

afraid that we should vanish into thin air with our two tons of
baggage?

The strike had made us lose four hours, and it was not until
late in the morning that we left for Hanzale (6,889 feet on the
map) which, fortunately, was only ten miles distant. We had
satisfactorily overcome the difficulty. Tilman was quite right
when he said that the major problem of all Himalayan expedi-
tions was transport.

The march began with a long walk through forest, which was
lucky, for the heat was overpowering, and the sun’s rays struck
through the trees, which rose straight as rods. The route fol-
lowed the Marau pretty well continuously, and we were cooled
by the spray from its waters. The torrent hurled itself furiously
over the dams caused by rock-falls, and soon became nothing
but a series of boiling cascades.

The scenery grew progressively wilder as we approached
Hanzale. In the distance we could see the snows of the Brama
massif, where 6,000-metre peaks still wait to be conquered. And
like the scenery, the inhabitants grew less civilised: a small boy
busy digging an irrigation channel dropped his implements and
fled yelling when he caught sight of us.

Yet in the village of Hanzale we were well received, in par-
ticular by the teacher, who took his classes in the open air. He
was delighted when we asked him if we might film the scene,
and played his part to perfection before the camera. He was in
fact about to give his pupils a lesson in geography, with a map
of the Himalaya. So he went on with his class and here, trans-
lated by Nalni Jayal, are his words: “The Himalaya is the
longest range of mountains in the world. The highest summit is
Everest. Next comes... Nun Kun! And it is these heroes you
see before you who are going to attempt its conquest.’ The
children all turned round admiringly to see what sort of a guy
a hero was!

After the filming was over, the teacher asked the children to
conduct us to the rest-house, at the far end of the village. As we
went along Claude distributed some sweets which at first they
regarded with mistrust, but ended by sucking with open relish.
They even asked for more, encouraging all their little brothers
and sisters to come and join in the distribution. And when we

In the Heart of Kashmir

were settled in the rest-house all the teacher’s authority was
required to protect us from their enthusiasm. Before taking his
leave the teacher saluted in Hindu fashion: he bowed while
placing his hands on his chest, palms cupped, fingers together,
in the image of a lotus flower.

At this moment the muleteers arrived all smiles, pleased by
the short march. As we were in generous mood we distributed
cigarettes. Relations with the transport syndicate had certainly
improved since morning.

* * * * *

On July 21 we reached Napachi (7,217 feet). It was just a
week since we left Doda, and we had covered over ninety miles.
The day’s march had been very short, but rather trying—
always on account of the heat. Once again the scenery had
changed completely. After having spent two days making our
way up a deep valley carved by the Marau, to our surprise we
came to a great plain which very much resembled the plain
across which the Isére flows near Voiron. The Marau now
spread out and meandered lazily along. Napachi seems to be a
fairly rich agricultural district—rice, maize, and barley are
cultivated, apple and walnut trees grow in the orchards, and
the cattle graze on fine pastures—yet the inhabitants appeared to
be poor, backward, and deficient. They had never seen a doc-
tor. They live in wooden huts something like cheese-makers’
chalets in the high Alps, where the cattle are kept on the
ground floor and the family, often very numerous, live above.
The natives are very timid and go in terror of bears; when they
learned that we had no firearms they showed their disappoint-
ment. To protect their crops against these marauders who come
down from the mountains after nightfall, these good people have
no other resource but to make a noise, and they let out short,
melancholy screeches. Nights at Napachi were lugubrious and
noisy.

Our first concern was to find out about the way to Nun Kun.
(The Napachi officials spoke Urdu, whereas at Doda they had
spoken Hindustani.) Their answer was quite definite: the way
was too steep and too narrow for mules. So we should have to
part with our muleteers, which caused us no heartache.

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

Settling-up brought fresh difficulties, for our men insisted up-
on a tip. But now we had the whip hand, and we replied that,
on the contrary, we would give only half-pay for this last march,
which had been ridiculously short. Hearing this, the muleteers
did not insist further, but bad-temperedly started to unload the
mules anywhere—though still near to the rest-house. They
purposely let the loads fall anyhow, and pushed the beasts about
roughly, bawling away all the time. It seemed to be infectious,
and the mules started up too, so there was a fine hullabaloo.
Ang Tharkay restored order to all this confusion; he carefully
checked the baggage and wrote in his note-book each man’s
name with the loads which his mule er mules were carrying.

Ang Tharkay was indeed a treasure. He is a first-class cook—
there is no one to equal him in preparing rice and making cur-
ried ehicken—and he is a Sirdar whom his Sherpas regard with
the utmost respect; he could cope with any situation, and his
knowledge seemed inexhaustible. There is nothing he does not
know about expeditions. Tilman has described him as “a sort
of Jeeves, Admirable Crichton, and Napoleon rolled into one,
but taking himself less seriously than any of these redoubtable
men’.

At last the muleteers were paid off, and it was with a sigh of
relief that we saw them go. We could now work out a plan of
action in peace and quiet.

The first question to settle was the porters. We needed about
a hundred coolies; the official assigned to us by the deputy-
commissioner would see about recruiting them. This tax-col-
lector, whose honesty we had no reason to doubt, turned out
later to be a downright rascal; our coolies told us that he
deducted a high commission from their wages, threatening that
he would not engage them if they refused to give him baksheesh.

This fellow now consulted the local authorities to find out how
long it would take to muster a hundred porters. They told him
four days, for there were not enough men at Napachi, and they
would have to be looked for in the neighbourhood. This was
bad news. We certainly needed two days in which to repack the
loads—from 130 pounds they would have to be cut down to a
coolie’s load of between fifty and sixty pounds. But four days
was too much. So to save time I decided to split the party into

In the Heart of Kashmir

two groups. Pierre Vittoz, Claude Kogan, and Nalni Jayal
would leave in two days’ time with two Sherpas, Pemba Norbu
and Gyaldzen, and the porters recruited from Napachi itself.
The object of this small vanguard would be to reconnoitre the
route and choose a site for our future Base Camp. The main
contingent would follow two days later, when all the details of
the second and final phase of the approach march had been
settled.

Another outstanding question was the coolies’ food. We were
told it was about fifty-five miles from Napachi to the foot of Nun,
and Nalni Jayal and K. C. Johorey checked the distance on the
Survey of India maps. Fifty-five miles meant a five days’ march.
One hundred porters equalled 220 pounds of wheat-flour per
day. We should therefore need nine hundredweight and we
had only seven.

So the tax-collector was instructed to recruit a hundred por-
ters, ten to leave on July 23, the rest on the 25th, and to procure
two hundredweight of atta. Off he went to his official head-
quarters, where the authorities were awaiting him, saying that
he would let us know next day the result of his “negotiations’”’.
“What about rates of pay?” I asked him. “I will talk to you
about that to-morrow also,” he replied, prudently refusing to
commit himself. So more talks loomed before us.

Sure enough, late next morning I received the following mes-
sage from him: ‘““The village head-men propose seven rupees per
man-day. This seems a lot to me, but they insist that the porters
will be running great danger, that they have much work to do,
and that if they leave their fields the bears will come and eat the
crops. I said this was blackmail. After hours of discussion I
have succeeded in obtaining the following conditions: five
rupees per day; half to be paid in advance. I imagine you will
agree. I await you here, where the bearer of this message will
guide you; I cannot leave, I have too much work.”

I was very angry when I read this message, and so were the
others. There was a chorus of protest, and Claude, who was
treasurer of the expedition and who is a very economical
creature, was scandalised:

““They’re just trying to cheat us. You’re not going to accept,
I hope.”

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

“Of course not.”

There was really no reason why we should accept. No ex-
pedition, save in quite exceptional circumstances, had ever paid
more than three rupees per day, including food. The deputy-
commissioner of Doda had confirmed this figure and advised us
not to let ourselves be cheated into paying more.

We left the others to get on with preparations for the advance
party, and to repack the loads for the main party, and seizing
our raincoats—for it had been pelting since the night before—
Nalni Jayal, Johorey, and I rushed off to find the tax-collector
and his acolytes.

The rest-house was quite a distance from the village, and the
tax-office was right at the far end; it took us nearly three-
quarters of an hour to get there, and as we paddled through the
wet my temper had time to cool. At last we reached the chalet,
and were taken up some very steep stairs and ushered into a
large, ill-lit room.

The whole tribunal was assembled round a table; the tax-
collector presided, like a judge with his assessors. They saluted
us with respect—after all, we were the sahibs—and chairs were
brought for us. We sat down slowly and deliberately, just to
show we were in no hurry. Time, remember, is not of much
account in India.

After a moment’s silence the tax-collector began:

“These gentlemen,” he said, indicating the assembly, “‘cannot
accept anything less than five rupees per day.”

I did not reply, but nonchalantly put down a fat packet of
notes on the table and then looked at the delegates from the
villages. They were fascinated by the money, and their eyes
betrayed them. To a district like this, which had seen no tourist
for many a long day, the arrival of an expedition was a source
of wealth that must not be missed. Another silence. With
studied calm I said to the tax-officer, who translated:

““We cannot pay more than three rupees a day. And we cer-
tainly shan’t pay half that sum in advance, but a quarter to-day,
another quarter the day we leave, and the rest on arrival at Base
Camp. It must be clearly understood that we supply food for
the journey out only, and not for the return.”

I shall spare you all the arguments advanced by one side and

In the Heart of Kashmir

the other, as the talks dragged out for over two hours. Nalni
used subtlety, K. C. was forceful (he spoke of calling in the
Army from Srinagar!); they were both extremely helpful.
Several times we made as if to go, and of course picked up the
bundle of rupees—an action which each time provoked a gasp
of apprehension.

When the moment was ripe I played my trump-card. I
showed a letter from the Prime Minister of Kashmir. Most
politely I threatened the village head-men and the Mayor of
Napachi with the Government’s displeasure; I would make a
report to Srinagar upon our return. At the moment we had got
them down to four rupees. Translated by the tax-collector, the
letter produced a great effect: they now came down to three
rupees. By way of compensation we gave in on one point: we
would pay a third of the sum immediately, instead of a quarter.
For the return journey the coolies were to be responsible for
their own food. Finally, if all went well, we would give good
baksheesh and cigarettes.

Two other questions were settled at the same time. When the
expedition returned there would naturally be fewer loads, and
seventy porters would be enough. They must be at the Base
Camp on August 28; the wages would be the same. Secondly,
we would employ two messengers, who would be paid one rupee
per day during the whole time they were employed. Messages
would be carried rapidly to Kishtwar by the forest guards, who
would relay them from village to village.

When we took leave of these dignitaries we were the best of
friends, and they could not be polite enough to us. The day was
won. Upon our return to the rest-house in triumph, we were
congratulated by Jean Guillemin, not usually give to praising,
but neither did he like spending money unnecessarily.

In the meantime the poor fellow was snowed under with
work. The whole neighbourhood of Napachi had learned that
a doctor had arrived, and there was a tremendous crowd wait-
ing to consult him. It looked like the Cours des Miracles of
medieval Paris: the maimed, the goitrous, women who wanted
children, women who didn’t want them, children with rickets or
with enormous cysts, asthmatics, rheumatics, and so on. A
father brought his son in his arms. The boy’s foot was full of pus

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

and so swollen that it was nearly double the normal size. The
M.O. disinfected the wound, which had been covered with a
plaster of cow dung, put on a thick dressing, gave him sulphon-
amides and directions for the treatment to be followed. When
Jean saw his patient again a month and a half later, he was
walking like the rest of us. The effect of such treatment upon
people who know nothing of medicine is incredible.

So, while for hours on end the doctor patiently performed his
duties, Claude, Pierre, Michel, Ang Tharkay, and the Sherpas
finished their preparations for departure. By the end of the
evening all was ready, and the loads for the main party were
also completed. We should now be able to rest for two days
before the bulk of the porters arrived. For Jean and myself it
was the first rest since we had left Paris, and for this the rest-
house, which stood among fir-trees, was ideal. That evening, in
the moonlight, we saw some magnificent silver peaks over 13,000
feet high. Out of the dark came mournful cries, the howling of
the peasants to frighten the bears. We had better barricade our-
selves in, or else the bears might be after us!

On July 23 Claude, Pierre, Nalni, Pemba Norbu, and Gyald-
zen said good-bye, in the rain. Though we were looking forward
to our two rest days, at heart we envied them. “ A bientét! See
you at Base Camp!”

We were not far from our goal. Fifty-five miles—five days’
march—and 8,000 feet to make in height; then, at last, we should
be at the foot of Nun.

‘aoprig

q lt po 2 aS 4aqdns yaQ Yua AL UOYDT Isuy } UISSOL")
DN v0 Y) Oo i ,
uO 7 DAMME YD | JQ ]
ISIAAAGNS O Z Us /
ee b = i.

iat a

Ds Z yy

a ait s " ” x bs _ ‘| ‘5 > iN a .
Coolies resting on the way to Base Camp: Nun in the background.

Fording the Mandik Sar.

CHAPTER III
NUN KUN

Ar six-thirty on July 25, almost before the sun was up, our ninety
porters arrived gesticulating, jabbering, prying round the rest-
house in search of empty boxes or tins, sizing up the loads and
trying to guess which were the lightest. They were jolly crea-
tures, child-like and always smiling—except when they were on
strike. And when one asked, ‘“‘Chabash?” 1 they invariably
replied, ‘““Chabash!”

The Napachi authorities, with the tax-collector at their head,
very properly took part in the preparations for our departure.
They made the coolies file past one by one and gave them the
advance on their pay, as arranged. By way of receipt and signa-
ture each man affixed his thumb-print on a large sheet of parch-
ment, and the ninety right-hand thumb-prints made a curious
work of art.

Next, each coolie, counting and re-counting his rupees, was
directed towards the “‘departure centre”, where Ang Tharkay
was in charge, taking each man’s name, allotting him a load,
and noting the details of the contents. The coolies fixed the
loads on their backs with ropes which they had brought them-
selves, and then in small groups left the rest-house and were lost
to view over the countryside. We wondered if we’d ever see our
loads and porters again, but Ang Tharkay was very reassuring:

“Tt is always like this, sahibs,”’ he told us with his broad grin.
“I’ve been doing this for years, and I’ve never lost a thing.”
And with this we had to be content.

These coolies looked quite different from the muleteers. The
latter wore very light clothes—white cotton trousers and shirts
with the tails hanging outside—whereas the porters were dressed
more warmly; strong linen or woollen trousers, big closely woven
woollen coats coming half-way down their thighs, and a turban
or cap. The long, wide flannel belt which they wind round their
waists and then throw over their shoulders serves many uses: to

1 All right.

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

carry small loads, as a blanket for bivouacs, and so on. Their
calves were tightly bound with woollen puttees, which protected
them against the cold and, so they said, against varicose veins.
On their feet they wore ingeniously woven straw sandals, and no
porter failed to carry a small stock of them, for they wear out
quickly. All these coolies—some of them in rags—with all this
gear, made one think of Napoleon’s soldiers leaving for the
campaign in Italy.

These men are mountain folk and fairly strongly built, though
there are some weakly specimens, and on an average they are
about five feet six inches tall. They have typically Kashmiri
faces—long with dark eyes, black hair, prominent noses, and
protruding ears. They have magnificent teeth, though they
never use tooth-brush or paste, but only a little wooden stick
with which they rub vigorously—a practice also employed by
the Indians in Peru. Their personal baggage consists of the
clothing they wear plus a large flat copper plate on which they
make their chapattis, a large cup, also of copper, for their drink,
and a sack containing their supplies of atta.

They are certainly experts in what might be called the Tilman
system of travelling light. (One of my British friends who
was on one of his expeditions confided to me that Tilman
would allow only the absolute essentials, and that this quota
was cut down by half on the day of departure. I don’t
know what Tilman could have done to reduce these coolies’
belongings!)

All the porters had now left except one who was trying to fix
an enormous sack full of tinned food on to his back. Michel
took pity on him and held out a rubber mat which would pro-
tect his back from painful contact with the tins. The man
looked closely at this object, turned it this way and that, smiled
—he had never seen anything like it before—and then folded the
mat, put it on top of his load, and went tearing off! It was eight
o’clock when we finally left, and the weather was magnificent.
The whole population of Napachi had taken up positions on
either side of the path, reminding us of the crowds watching the
Tour de France. On leaving the village we came to the Marau,
which makes a wide bend to the east. We crossed it by a rustic
swing bridge, which swayed so much that we felt seasick, and

Nun Kun

began to make our way up the side of one of its tributaries, the
Rin Nal, which flowed down from the north.

Another small village, Yurod, consisting of wooden chalets
very like those you find in Savoy, had grown up at the junction
of the two rivers. Here, too, everyone had turned out on to their
doorsteps and watched us go by with unconcealed interest.
There was even a little triumphal archway erected in the centre
of the village, and we wondered whether it was in our honour.
But the children looked very scared; the small ones hid in their
mothers’ skirts, and some of the older ones jumped into the ditch
like frightened goats. We were interviewed by the village school-
master, who was also the correspondent of a Kashmiri news-
paper. He didn’t quite understand all the names, and later we
read, instead of Michel Desorbay, Maréchal Desorbay: enough
to make Captain Johorey and Lieutenant Jayal green with
envy.

For many hours we followed the Rin Nal valley, admiring the
magnificent forests and their entrancing glades. My travelling
companion was none other than the tax-collector. No doubt on
the principle that travel was good for the young—and I
wouldn’t be the one to deny this—he had decided to accompany
us as far as the last rest-house. He thought he might be of use to
us in dealing with the inhabitants. But I think in reality he was
not sorry to visit this district, which he helped to administer by
relieving it, on behalf of the Government, of those good jingling
rupees. This official was an intelligent fellow, who spoke and
wrote English very well. It was a real pleasure to talk to him,
and I took the opportunity of asking him all sorts of questions
about local affairs.

* * * * *

The administrative set-up is relatively simple. Each district
is divided into tahsils (for example Kishtwar). Each tahsil is
made up of several villages (Yurod, Napachi, which we had just
been through). At the head of each district there is a deputy-
commissioner. And at the head of each tahsil a tahsildar. At the
head of each village, a mayor or lambardar. Several villages are
grouped together under the authority of a patwari, and several
patwaris under a girdawar.

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

All these officials are appointed by the Government, except
the village mayors, who are elected by the inhabitants (this last
is a recent measure, one of the new democratic procedures lately
introduced into Kashmir). The /ambadar is not assisted by a
municipal council, as in France, although at Kishtwar there
was a body rather like it, and his function bears only the slightest
resemblance to that of a French mayor. He certainly attends to
all questions affecting the life of his village, but apparently his
main job is to help the administration assess the taxes and collect
them. For this he receives a commission of five per cent (which
encourages him to do his job thoroughly). I asked how the tax
was fixed, and he explained that the basic rate had been fixed
forty years ago, but the actual tax—which ranges from one to
eight annas for a twentieth of a hectare 1—varies according to
the fertility of the ground and the nature of the crop.

The tahsildar is responsible for the administration of his tahsil.
He acts as chief magistrate in all criminal affairs (a judge deals
with civil cases) ; and he also has to collect the taxes of the tahsil.
The parts played by the patwaris and the girdawars do not appear
to be very well defined, although I gathered that they supervised
the redistribution of land. The coming of democracy was fol-
lowed by a radical reform, still quite recent (1950), which broke
up the big estates of the zamindars, or landed proprietors. Now
the land belongs to those who cultivate it, and no-one has the
right to own more than 182 kanals.? The duties of the patwans
and the girdawars seem to include supervising work in the fields,
as well as checking the harvest yield and suggesting improve-
ments in agricultural technique.

Finally, there are the chaukidars, minor officials rather like our
forest guards, who report all criminal offences to the ¢tahsildar.
But murder and theft are extremely rare. In this particular
tahsil there had been only one crime in four years, and that was
due to jealousy—a man had killed his wife. And that can hap-
pen anywhere in the world. Theft of crops is practically un-
known. It is also the chaukidars who keep the register of births,

1 This would equal about 600 square yards; there are sixteen annas In
one rupee, which is worth one shilling and sixpence.

2 One kanal is about 600 square yards. The total amount would be about
twenty acres.

Nun Kun

marriages, and deaths. The boys cannot marry until they are
eighteen, and the girls until they are fourteen.

The main crops are maize, barley, wheat, and rice, and of
these rice is the staple food. The harvests are not always big
enough, and to prevent famine the Government has to send help.
Vegetables are also cultivated: potatoes and chick-peas, for
example. There are quite a number of orchards, growing
apples, walnuts, etc. The livestock is mostly horned cattle,
sheep, goats, horses, and mules.

These are rather meagre resources, and the Government are
doing their best to improve the situation. They are trying to
introduce the use of artificial fertilisers, to supply selected ani-
mals to improve the herds, and to lend tractors. The forests are
the property of the State, but the timber rights are put up for
auction to private companies, with safeguards against deforesta-
tion.

The tahsil exports spices to India—saffron in particular—as
well as a medicinal plant, kuth, and above all, cocoons: the
breeding of silk-worms is highly developed. Those Kashmin
silks aroused the silk merchant in me (that is my job in civilian
life). To these exports must be added wood. The country im-
ports salt, tea, clothing, and sugar.

“But in fact,” the tax-collector admitted, “‘within the tahsil
nearly everything is done by barter: grain is exchanged for wool,
and clothes are often made by the villagers themselves.”

So the economic situation is not particularly brilliant, and in
some ways it is decidedly archaic. The agricultural resources do
not increase in proportion to the population (each family has
four or five children); and this presents the serious problem
which preoccupied Malthus a century ago.

I asked another question:

“The land seems to be very fertile. Can’t the output be
improved by irrigation?”

“Yes, a big canal is to be built near Kishtwar. Then it will
be possible to increase the acreage of rice at the expense of bar-
ley and maize. It will also make water-power possible.’ I had
indeed been struck by the potential wealth represented by the
great rivers and rushing torrents of Kashmir.

“But,” I went on, “if cultivation is increased at Kishtwar, and

2 49

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

even if an industry is started—for instance, wood or medicinal
herbs—how will you manage to export your goods since there is
no road?”

‘‘Just now the Government is constructing one. The first
stage, Doda to Thatri, will be completed in a year. But the
second stage from Thatri to Kishtwar will take many years to
finish. As for the canal, it is not yet started. It is only a project,
to realise it needs a great deal of money. And the Government
is not exactly rich.”

The inspector went on to tell me about the population of the
tahsil. In an area extending a hundred miles from north to
south and sixty east and west there were only about 65,000 in-
habitants. To this permanent population must be added the
nomad tribes. These arrive in the spring, coming from Jammu
and surrounding districts, with flocks which they fatten on the
high pastures above the 10,000-foot level; they leave again in the
autumn. Although these pastures are common property, the
nomads pay a tax.

The expectation of life is about forty years, yet the infantile
mortality rate does not exceed ten per cent. But health arrange-
ments are bad. The only resident doctor in the ¢ahsil is at
Kishtwar (from Kishtwar to Napachi is sixty miles) and the
nearest hospital is at Srinagar—four days’ march and then half
a day’s drive. So the sick leave things to nature. Confinements
are handled in each village by a midwife who has become a
specialist through practice.

At Napachi the population is mainly Mahommedan: there is
a mosque, and the children are taught the Koran. But in other
places, Doda for example, some of the inhabitants are Mahom-
medan, others Hindu. The two religions live on good terms
with one another, and each observes its own feasts.

“What about the schools?”

“There are two. They were opened fifteen years ago.”

““Are they free?”

“Yes, what we call primary education is free. But many
parents prefer to employ the children in the fields. Some of the
intelligent ones are sent to Jammu to continue their studies.
They are assisted by the village, which is proud to have pro-
duced such prodigies.”

SN UN (23,410 Eb)

a Davis Sar

TASHPARU} W “Am BRIDGE of BEARS
or
ET Pretwan

“Napa, ee man/U Ie SPRINGS
f ae

“YUROD

& KISHTWAR

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“ODA
Barote , Udhampur, JAMMU,
Pathankot NEW DELHI
een

THATRI

THE APPROACH

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

“‘Here’s a last question: Do the people in the parts we’ve been
through take an interest in politics?”

‘As the schools opened only fifteen years ago, most of the men
in the villages are still illiterate. Barely a third of the popula-
tion of Napachi know how to read and write Urdu. The vil-
lagers pay little attention to politics, and understand nothing
about them, and we don’t get newspapers here. The people are
too taken up with their everyday worries—life’s hard and
money’s scarce and they just keep going, and that’s the main
thing. Sometimes political workers, people who make politics
their profession, come to visit them. But these propagandists
don’t make much headway. All the same, people reckon that
things are better since the departure of the Maharajah. There
is more liberty, for there used to be no appeal against arbitrary
despotism. Generally speaking, the villagers accept all political
changes, even important ones, provided their interests are not
interfered with or their way of life affected.”

Kashmir peasants are certainly not the only ones to feel like
this!

* * * * *

We now came to Hot Springs, 7,900 feet, after a march of
twelve miles—the maximum stage for porters. Our rest-house
was hidden among fir trees on a terrace overhanging the thun-
dering Rin Nal. This amazingly wild and savage gorge is set
between steep walls to which cling giant trees of every species.
In front of us immense rock walls, contorted by Himalayan up-
heavals, rose up in a single sweep. And on the horizon delicate
snow crests were outlined against the blue-mauve sunset sky. No
massive mountains, just towers and spires and ridges of light-
coloured rock, capped with snow or ice and touched by the last
rays of the sun.

Close to the rest-house could be heard the murmur of the
springs, from which the village takes its name. Although it was
late, we bathed, knowing that a pleasure like this would not
come our way again for a long time. We had such a wonderful
feeling of well-being in the water that we could scarcely drag
ourselves away. Dinner, prepared by the Sherpas, was awaiting
us on the terrace—an exquisite meal, consisting almost entirely

Nun Kun

of fresh food: vegetable soup, curried chicken, milk in various
forms, and fruit. We appreciated this all the more for the know-
ledge that very soon we should be reduced to the detestable
regime of tinned foods.

Night fell suddenly. The Southern Cross and the Great Bear
dazzled in the firmament. The coolies were grouped round a
wood fire singing tunes that reminded me strangely of some I
had heard the Touareg sing. Ang Tharkay and his Sherpas
recited their prayers. And, gazing into the distance, we
dreamt of our great adventure that was coming nearer every
day; we thought of the high camps, clinging to the flanks of
‘our’ mountain. We should suffer from the cold and be bat-
tered by storms: and then, we should remember the Capuan
luxuries of Hot Springs.

Next day we reached Tashparu, nine miles’ march and an-
other thousand feet up, where we had been told we should find
the last rest-house. After that it was unknown territory. No
more villages, no more hamlets, no more natives. We might
meet with some nomads and their flocks, but nothing else.

When we came to the ruined and disused rest-house we were
greatly surprised to find Claude, Pierre, Nalni Jayal, Gyaldzen,
Pemba Norbu, and their coolies!

“What on earth’s happened?” we asked in astonishment, and
rather crossly.

“It is quite simple,’ they answered placidly. “We have to
cross the river which you can hear thundering along; it is the
Zaz Nal, a tributary of the Rin Nal. But there is no bridge. It
has been carried away by the monsoon floods.”

“Well, that’s a bit of a fix. But I suppose you’re doing some-
thing about it?”

“Of course. We’re building another bridge.”

“Congratulations. But who are ‘we’? God Almighty?”

“No,” said Pierre. ‘“The men of Metwan, the last village you
came through. When we passed through two days ago the vil-
lagers told us that the bridge had been destroyed. At the time
we didn’t believe a word of what they said. You remember all
the stories of that kind which were told us at Kishtwar. When
we came to the spot we had to admit we were wrong. There
was no sign of a bridge. So then Claude and I followed the river

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

upstream for three hours in the hope of finding a ford or a foot-
bridge. But there was nothing. We sent Nalni Jayal to Metwan
to engage workers. The village head-man, Mahommed Sheik—
he’s a grand chap, with any amount of go—recruited a team
immediately without so much as asking if he’d get paid any-
thing, and they are at work now. Come and see, it’s only five
minutes from here.”

On the opposite bank of the Zaz Nal, Mahommed Sheik
yelled orders which almost drowned the noise of the torrent.
Nalni explained the way things were being done. The first abut-
ment, which had been half destroyed, had now been reinforced
with stones. Then a tree had been thrown across the torrent
to the second abutment, which, fortunately, was still in good
condition. Mahommed Sheik had reached the far bank by
straddling across; this needed pluck: it was a delicate and dan-
gerous manceuvre, during which it was better not to look down.
A second tree-trunk was pushed over to him. Logs of fir-wood
split in half were placed across this improvised span, and the
cross-pieces were fixed to the two large trunks and bound to
each other by interlacing branches.

The bridge was now nearly finished. In a guttural voice and
with much flashing of his black eyes, Mahommed Sheik gave
orders for some big stones to be put on the spans to reduce the
swaying. After the last stone was in position the chief contractor
left the opposite bank and crossed the bridge majestically to-
wards us. He stopped for an instant in the middle and proudly
pointed to his work with the air of one saying: ‘‘Well, that’s a
fine job well and quickly done.” And indeed the construction
of this bridge with nothing but makeshift material and without
any mechanical aids was a remarkable feat. We thanked
Mahommed Sheik warmly, for he had got us out of an awkward
hole. He was profuse in his thanks when the bara sahib presented
him with fifty rupees and a certificate of praise written on the
expedition’s headed note-paper.

This bridge, which we christened the Bridge of Bears, because
we had caught a glimpse of two large specimens a little while
back, had cost us the modest sum of £3 105. It would have been
hard to improve on this.

Back at the rest-house, Pierre said: ‘‘It was a mighty good idea

Nun Kun

of yours to send us on ahead. Otherwise we should have lost two
days and four hundredweight of atta. I don’t know how we
should have fed the porters as far as Base Camp.”

“You flatter me, Pastor! But that’s not the whole of it: you
must set out first thing to-morrow, for your assignment hasn’t
changed: to reconnoitre the route and settle on a site for our
Base Camp.”

“Of course. But Claude’s in trouble with blisters.”

“Never mind. Michel will take her place.”

And Michel was delighted with this piece of luck.

So Pierre, Michel, Nalni Jayal, the two Sherpas, and ten por-
ters went off next morning at six. We left the rest-house an hour
later. Crossing the bridge was a lengthy affair, for in spite of the
weight of the stones, it still swayed considerably. The heavily
laden porters could only cross one at a time. They were rather
scared, and with good reason, for a fall into the river would have
been quite disastrous. Immediately afterwards we climbed up a
little path by the side of an enormous rock spur overhanging the
gorge. It was a tough ascent, and all the more disagreeable be-
cause our muscles were not yet warmed up. The coolies rested
frequently; they had a curious habit of whistling as they emptied
their lungs, and they leaned their loads on a large stick shaped
like an ice-axe, which also served to help them keep their
balance in difficult places, and when descending. Thanks to
this ingenious method of support, they were able to take short
rests without having to set down their loads.

This steep ascent lasted more than an hour and a half, and
we arrived sweating and panting at the top of the spur. We
glanced back: in the depths of the gorge the rest-house looked
minute among the trees. We saw that the Rin Nal took a sharp
turn to the right just where a tributary, marked on the map as
the Krash Nal, flowed into it. And it was this latter river which
we now had to follow. The path led us down to it at an easy
gradient. Evidently there was no other way than to climb the
spur, but it was vexatious to have to lose the benefit of our too-
early morning effort.

At this height, just on 10,000 feet, the vegetation had already
changed completely. The forest had disappeared almost en-
tirely and given place to alps—if one may apply such a term to

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

the Himalaya—dotted here and there with gnarled trees and
criss-crossed with little streams. At last we could drink the water
without fear, whereas up till now, since the beginning of our
approach march, we had been obliged to disinfect the water
with tablets.

The path ran down through tall grass that grew waist-high,
sometimes even shoulder-high. Just the place to pick up typhus.
But if we’d taken all the precautions prescribed—gloves,
trousers tight round the ankles, and neckerchiefs—we should
have died of heat long ago. Here, however, the regulation cos-
tume would certainly have been more bearable, for, in spite of
a dazzling sun, there was a delicious cool breeze which gave us
a foretaste of the heights and set the brilliantly coloured flowers
rippling and swaying.

We set up our camp in this bower of greenery in mid-after-
noon. The tents were pitched, and it came as quite a surprise
to behold our canvas dwellings, with no tables or chairs, so
accustomed had we become to find a comfortable rest-house
every evening at the end of a hot day’s march.

We had scarcely settled down when, to our astonishment,
there appeared a group of nomads: it turned out that their camp
was quite near ours. There were about thirty of them—men,
women, children, and old folk, and a splendid old chief, with
a hennaed beard. These were the people we'd been told of who
came up for the summer grazing.

They weren’t at all the same type as our coolies, but more like
gipsies, magnificently healthy creatures—no doubt because they
live half the year in the pure air of 10,000 feet, and enjoy a
healthy and abundant diet. They were very good-looking, with
regular features, and when they smiled their black eyes sparkled
and their teeth gleamed. They were dressed with care and had
an air of substance about them. In fact, most of the men wore
wrist-watches, and the women and girls were plentifully adorned
with jewellery, even to their noses. Summer grazing seemed to
be a profitable business!

No-one could say how these nomads had heard of our arrival.
I had already had experience of desert wireless, and now I was
to see how the Himalayan variety operated. The new arrivals
knew that we had a doctor with us, and immediately every one

Nun Kun

of them, from the oldest to the youngest, discovered he had
something the matter with him. Jean was swamped, and called
us in to help, meanwhile explaining to the nomads that we, too,
were skilled in doctoring and that they might have every con-
fidence in us. So Claude and I transformed ourselves on the
spot into physicians, with Johorey as interpreter while the
patients filed past one by one. Claude attended to the female
department. Some complained that they had no children: they
were given an aspirin tablet. Others didn’t want any children:
an aspirin tablet. In the men’s department I proceeded along
the same lines, since my resources weren’t any more extensive
than hers. One patient announced that he was constipated:
aspirin. Another that he suffered from diarrhcea: aspirin. The
head tribesman rolled his sleeve up to the elbow and showed a
callosity: three sleeping-tablets.

Jean was far more conscientious, although pretty chary of
using his stock of medicines, which was understandable enough.
We had already run through a considerable quantity on our way
up, and though we’d foreseen this, we were now beginning to
run short. It was time to put a stop to this free distribution.

The patients, more or less cured, went off very pleased. We
were keen to photograph them, and they consented most
graciously. ‘The crowd milled round Claude, K. C., and myself,
and the coolies also came up, to rescue us; they were all
highly diverted to see faces and groups reflected in our camera
sights. But what really impressed them was the flash. This
sudden illumination struck them as nothing short of a miracle,
and they quarrelled over possession of the used magnesium
bulbs.

The patriarch stayed a moment longer to ask us a few ques-
tions. He knew that the sahibs were going to Nun Kun, but
what were we going to do there?

“To attempt the conquest of Nun, upon which no man has
yet set foot,” answered K. C. Johorey.

The man with the hennaed beard was dumbfounded:

“You must be mad.” And he went on to warn us that the
peak was haunted by a diabolical fakir who sent out columns of
smoke into which we would disappear.

K. C. smiled and replied: “But the sahibs are lion-hearted!”

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

This handsome rejoinder did not appear to impress the patri-
arch, who went away repeating to himself, “It’s impossible to
reach the top of Nun. Even a bird couldn’t get there.”

* * * * *

But we hadn’t yet got as far as this problem, since we hadn’t
even reached the foot of Nun. However, things now started
moving quickly. On the morning of July 28 we got up at five
o’clock so as to leave very early, for it was to be a long march.
The day before we had covered twelve miles, which is a lot for
porters, but now we were going to try to push them a bit farther,
for, to our dismay, the stocks of flour were dwindling fast. If by
bad luck we were delayed a day or two, we might well find our-
selves in an extremely awkward situation. So, at six-thirty we
struck camp and continued along the path beside the Krash Nal.
The country grew steadily wilder.

The gorge, up which we marched for two hours, narrowed as
we gained height. The torrent swirled and thundered below,
and was eventually so constricted by the rocks that it could con-
tain itself no longer and poured down in cascades which gave off
a yellowish mist as the first rays of the sun shone upon them.

The Himalaya always have a surprise in reserve. This gorge
was in fact the outlet of an immense fjord-like lake. The wild
and dashing torrent of a few moments ago was transformed into
a great peaceful stretch of water, and the reaches round the
many sand-banks were scarcely rippled. The roar of the Krash
Nal had given place to an impressive silence, broken only by the
shrill cries of the marmots—just like the whistling of Paris
policemen. The marmots looked at us, pointed their noses, and
then fled down their holes. However, we found them to be much
less timid than their Alpine brothers, and we were able to get
quite close up and even to photograph them.

For an hour we followed the left bank of the lake, the Mandik
Sar, in the tracks of our advance guard. Here there were no
more paths: it was unknown ground. We were brought up short
by a cliff. Should we climb it or turn it on the right by wading
into the lake? Claude, who believes in trusting to intuition,
found a note from Michel on a rock: “Take your boots off, it’s
the only way. Skirt along the foot of the cliff until you find the

Nun Kun

tracks again three hundred yards farther on the left.” We did as
we were told, and hopped from one sand-bank to the next.
With our trousers rolled up and carrying our boots we looked
comically like Sunday trippers timidly paddling their toes on
the beaches of Normandy. Then the cliff ran down gently to a
grassy flat, and obviously this was where we had to rejoin the
bank. We had only to cross a rather wider reach than the others,
thirty yards or so, but it appeared to be rather deep, if the force
of the current was anything to judge by. I started across first,
as befitted the leader of an expedition. The water came up to
my calves, to my knees, and then to my thighs. Heavens, it was
icy! For a moment it didn’t get any deeper. Three yards from
the bank I thought I was safe, when all at once I went splosh
into a hole, and the water came up to my waist. I just had time
to clutch a tuft of grass and pull myself on to the bank. Warned
by my experience, the others managed to do better. No doubt
there was no risk of being drowned, but this enforced bath
obliged me to go around in my underpants the rest of the day
while my trousers dried on top of my rucksack. The Sherpas,
who love any sort of joke, roared with laughter at my mishap.

It looked as if we should see some fun when it came to the
porters’ turn, and I aimed my camera in the hope of being able
to film some incident. Along came our chaps followed by the
rest of the Sherpas, including Ang Tharkay sheltering under an
umbrella: he had lugged it all the way from Doda! But the
coolies were cleverer than I. They found a shallow passage a
bit lower down which they negotiated most successfully, going
in pairs and helping to keep each other’s balance. I was well
paid out. Another rock cliff followed, which this time we had to
climb, then a descent which brought us back to the banks of the
lake, and another ford to cross; at last we set foot on the sand of
an estuary covered with a quantity of—edelweiss. We could not
believe our eyes. Never had we seen such quantities. We de-
cided to stop for a rest and food—a well-earned halt, for we had
been going for five hours.

Farther on the fjord narrowed where a torrent called the
Fariabad Nal flowed in from a deep-cut gorge. We made our
way up, following its zig-zags closely, to where another surprise
awaited us. The river made a sudden bend and the gorge

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

widened to reveal the sight that we had waited for so long: the
peaks of the Himalaya, the massif of Nun Kun!

We were on the threshold of a new world. Unnamed peaks,
20,000 feet and over, sprang up on every side: miracles of snow,
rock, and ice—domes, towers, spires, defended by huge glaciers.
It was incredibly beautiful. We found enormous pleasure in
christening these mountains, but we seemed rather lacking in
imagination. ““There’s Mont Blanc’, we would say, or ““There’s
Fitz Roy”.! The peak guarding the entrance to the massif we
called the Sentinel. But I think in our heart of hearts we were
a little disappointed: there was no sign of Nun.

We had done enough for one day. There had been lots of
excitement, and the fifteen-mile march had been quite enough
for our porters. We decided to camp where we were, on the
banks of the Fariabad Nal, on a little plateau covered with
heath and in view of our special mountains. We were about
11,500 feet up—in the Alps we would have been at the top of
something. The coolies went off in search of scrub, for firewood
was becoming increasingly rare. But the heedless porters hadn’t
given it a thought, and soon the shortage of wood became a
serious problem.

On July 27 we struck camp briskly, for we were now longing
to penetrate into the heart of the massif. The approach march
seemed to be drawing to an end and Base Camp could not be far
distant. Beside the winding torrent we followed the fresh tracks
of the advance party. Most unexpectedly we encountered a
horde of wild horses, no doubt belonging to the nomads, who
looked at us in astonishment. ‘‘Most extraordinary,” they must
have been saying to themselves, ‘‘the number of people about
in the Himalaya this year!”? After two hours we came abruptly
upon a tent at a bend in the path: there was Nalni Jayal, alone
with Pemba Norbu and the coolies. I hurried up and asked
him where the others were.

“Pierre Vittoz, Michel Desorbay, and Gyaldzen have gone to
reconnoitre. The river splits into two branches, and we don’t
know which one leads to Nun.”

1 Fitz Roy is a splendid mountain nearly 11,000 feet high, in Patagonia.
It is exceedingly difficult, and was climbed in 1952 by Lionel Terray and
Guido Magnone.

Nun Kun

I looked at the map.

“That’s no good now,” said Nalini.

Quite true, for this massif had never been included in the
Indian Survey, and the details given were purely imaginary.
The only sahibs who had ever come this way were Bullock
Workman and his wife, who in 1906 made a tour of the Nun
Kun massif. They had drawn a little sketch map which we
examined, but it didn’t make things much clearer. We learned
that we were at Fariabad, 12,795 feet up, and that was about all.

“T think we ought to take the left-hand branch,”’ announced
Claude.

“‘That’s what I think, too. The nomads said ‘always keep left
for Nun’.”

We discussed it for a while, and then agreed that by waiting
for the return of the reconnaissance party we should lose time.
So the tent was struck and we started up the left-hand branch.

A long rise enabled us to avoid the difficult going in the gorge,
and an hour and a half later we reached a small plateau. Here
we rested a while—since morning we had marched without
stopping and at a good pace—and we even dropped off to sleep.
We were awoken by Jean calling us. ‘‘Gyaldzen, there’s Gyald-
zen!”? Gyaldzen, who was descending on the far side, saw us
and managed to cross the river on a flimsy snow bridge to join
us.

He gave me a note from Pierre, together with a drawing:
“‘Dear Bernard, it’s a piece of cake. Yesterday, from a hillock to
the south of Nun, on the other side of Fariabad Nal, we spotted
a site for Base Camp and to-day we were going there to see if it
isO.K. The way up to the West Col looks child’s play.”’ (I had
asked Pierre and Michel to pick out a route leading from the
Base Camp to the West Col, whence the West ridge of Nun could
be attacked.) “Follow the torrent until you come to the tent
from which we set out this morning. Join us as quickly as you
can. If by any chance you don’t arrive to-morrow”’ (Pierre had
thought we should arrive only this evening at the camp where
we had found Nalni) “send up a porter with some grub.”

I translated the message to Nalni Jayal and to K. C.

“You see, it’s just as well we took the left-hand branch with-
out waiting. We shall save half a day.”

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

Both of them wagged their heads and replied “‘Atcha/”’ Hindu-
stani for “‘all right’’, but also implying a lot of other things. I
turned next to Gyaldzen, who spoke a few words of English.

“Well, Gyaldzen, and what about Nun?” I said, for we found
it difficult to hide our impatience. “When shall we see it?”

“But it’s there, quite close, just beyond that bend!”’

We rushed off like lunatics. But the height—we were at
13,000 feet—very quickly brought us to our senses. Hardly had
we got our breath again when we were once more gasping, this
time at the apparition of ... Nun! We didn’t move another
step, but sat down on a rock devouring with our eyes the seven-
thousander of our dreams. Solid and imposing, Nun stood out-
lined against the blue sky, its summit, 10,000 feet above us, a
perfect cone. On either side of the South face which bristled
with black towers that plunged down to the Fariabad Nal, two
ridges climbed skyward. On the right the East Ridge, the route
chosen by the British parties. We followed it with our eyes.
Above the immense crevassed glacier was the White Needle,
whose south face had to be traversed in order to reach the small
col from which a hummocky ridge, half rock, half snow, led
upwards for several hundred feet. It was this obstacle which
stopped the 1934 and 1946 expeditions. The ridge then con-
tinued in a series of cornices on the point of collapsing, and
finally ran up to the summit. There were no regrets about giv-
ing up any idea of climbing Nun by that route.

On the left our West Ridge appeared steeper, but less dan-
gerous, because it was not corniced. Seen in profile from where
we stood, it looked easy enough. Would we have to revise our
opinions?

Gaily we ran down from the plateau to the torrent. Soon
after, a cheery yodel rang out and Pierre and Michel came to
meet us.

“Well done! We didn’t expect you so soon. Base Camp is
quite close, just three hours away.”

“‘We’re not there yet,” I told Pierre anxiously.

‘““What’s the matter?”

“Some difficulty with the porters! We have just left Ang
Tharkay where you pitched your second tent. The coolies want
to strike. It’s the last straw. Ang Tharkay is trying to persuade

Nun Kun

them to carry on. I back him entirely—he knows how to handle
them. But one can’t tell. Oh, well, let’s go on all the same.
We'll see all in good time.”

We went on to the foot of the moraine over which we should
make our way up to Base Camp next day, and picked a level
stretch of ground beside the river for our night’s camp, at 13,500
feet. Nalni Jayal, who was something of a poet, called it the
Pastoral Camp after Beethoven’s symphony, which reminded
him of running water.

Soon the porters appeared. And the strike, which is the bug-
bear of all expeditions, broke out in earnest. It was frightful.
These coolies are good chaps, but a few ringleaders are enough
to work them up. We had at all costs to make them come back
on their decision; but now they were definitely pushing off. Ang
Tharkay ran after them, passing them and halting them. He
talked for some time and succeeded in getting them back to the
camp. With K. C. and Nalini as interpreters I opened negotia-
tions. Ang Tharkay, a first-class diplomat, helped me in the
palaver. ‘“‘We’ve no more wood,” the porters declared. “Don’t
let that worry you. You can cook your chapattis on our stoves.
And there are some packing-cases which we can break up for
fuel.”

Then their spokesman came out with a demand for immediate
payment. I would not hear of it. If we paid them then and
there, they would have been off in a jiffy. I proposed to give
them their money the following day, still keeping one more
trump up my sleeve: a bonus to their pay. The discussions lasted
from three o’clock to seven, without any definite results, but
with various alternatives. First it was yes, then it was no, and so
on. We handed out a generous ration of flour and cigarettes.
Nothing had any effect. Both sides went to bed without giving
way. We were horribly worried.

On July 30 at 6 a.m. the discussions started up again. Finally,
at nine o’clock we reached a settlement: the coolies would be
paid at once, but on condition that they carried the loads as far
as Base Camp. I decided, with Ang Tharkay’s approval, to split
them up into groups of ten, each under the control of a sahib
and a Sherpa. The ringleaders would be under the eye of
Claude, Ang Tharkay, and myself.

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

Things did not go exactly smoothly, but at last, at ten o’clock,
camp was struck. After ascending a far too long moraine—if I
had been in the Almighty’s place, I would never have created
any moraines—we reached our Base Camp site at twelve-thirty.

We were now 15,500 feet up—almost the height of Mont
Blanc. Now that we were relieved of a major worry we were all
smiles. Ang Tharkay, who deserved great praise, immediately
distributed one rupee baksheesh and some flour, and all the por-
ters, except two whom we kept as mail-runners, flew off like a
flock of sparrows, quit at last of this mountain, of which they
were so terrified. During the night one of them had even turned
a bit crazy, declaring that Nun Kun was going to collapse on
top of them. I wondered whether, after all, it was not simply
fear of the mountain that had provoked the strike.

* * * * *

Here all was silence: at last we were alone with Nun, our own
particular mountain. The tents were to be pitched at the foot
of the South face, from whose colossal towers the avalanches
streamed down: a big tent for the Sherpas, two others for the
sahibs, and finally one other called the Barnum where we stacked
all the provisions, and which would also serve as a living-room.
We had to get busy with spades and ice-axes to level the ground
and remove the stones. We were not yet fully acclimatised and
felt the height; our hearts pounded fit to burst, and we felt
giddy.

It was now July 30, and Base Camp had been established pre-
cisely according to plan. That evening when we were all
assembled in the mess tent we opened a bottle of champagne
brought from Paris and toasted each other gaily. Michel dis-
appeared for a second and came back with an enormous candle
which he held out to me. Everyone was surprised, myself most
of all.

“Bernard,” he said, ‘“‘your memory is very short. Didn't
you say to me one day when you were battling with a host of
difficulties: ‘The day we reach Base Camp, I’ll light a candle’?”

CHAPTER IV
THE COL OF GOOD HOPE

BARELY two days had passed since our arrival at Base Camp,
and already we were going into action. The weather was mag-
nificent, and there wasn’t a day to be lost.

The plan of operations was as follows: Pierre, Nalni Jayal,
and myself, accompanied by Ang Tharkay and four Sherpas,
would establish Camp I. Claude, Michel, Jean, and K. C.
Johorey, who were not feeling entirely fit, would remain at Base
Camp to get everything straight and rest a bit. The following
day this second party of four would go up to Camp I to take
over while we reconnoitred a route up to Camp II. If the
weather allowed, they would then establish Camp II. After that
we would see.

Acclimatisation is what one has to bear in mind the whole
time. It is of the utmost importance, and it can only be achieved
progressively. Experienced Himalayan climbers, Sir John Hunt
in particular, had warned me on this point. Moreover, my ex-
perience on Salcantay in the Andes, where we had acclimatised
gradually, was still fresh in my mind. We had planned a
methodical upward progression, with a lot of going to and fro
between Base Camp at 14,500 feet and our two high camps at
16,000 feet and 17,750 feet, and by never staying more than one
day at either of them, we had succeeded after two weeks in get-
ting absolutely fit. None of us felt any the worse—not even the
slightest sickness or headache, and above all no loss of appetite,
and at high altitudes lack of appetite is the greatest menace.
Six out of seven of us had reached the summit at 20,669 feet,
which was good going. So now I was set on similar tactics for
the same length of time, and my companions entirely agreed.
There was no question of hurling ourselves at Nun. No doubt
Pierre, who had lived quietly at Leh for three years at an altitude
of 10,000 feet, would have been all right, and so, of course,
would the Sherpas. But it would be a different matter for us
poor city-dwellers, who were breathing town air barely a month

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

ago and were still suffering from the effects of the crushing heat
of the Indian plains. The only valuable conditioning we’d had
was on the long approach march, when the open-air life had to
some extent refreshed us and limbered us up. But we were far
from being fit enough for an immediate attack. Tackling a
seven thousander is no small matter: in half a century of Hima-
layan climbing only twenty-nine summits over this figure have
been climbed.

* * * *k *

I could not resist the desire to leave Base Camp a little ahead
of the rest of the party. For some time I made my way up the
moraine, which was marked by small cairns, then I came to a
big glacier which evidently led up to the foot of a rock shoulder,
on whose crest we should probably establish Camp I. Judging
from the sketch map made by the Bullock Workmans, it seemed
that once there, one would be able to reach the west ridge. This
rock shoulder, lying between the west ridge on the right and a
snow summit on the left, looked as if it might be a col. Long
before seeing it I had christened it the Col of Good Hope, be-
cause it seemed to me that once we reached it we should be
almost certain of success.

The glacier, which was strewn with big boulders and glacier
tables, lay at a gentle angle. Taking it easy, I climbed slowly
up, looking all around me. The mountain quiet was broken
only from time to time by an avalanche or stone-fall down the
south face, and by the intermittent rumbling of the torrents that
forced their way beneath the surface of the glacier.

I was incredibly happy, and I wished to enjoy my happiness
to the full. Somehow I guessed that I might never again on the
expedition recapture it quite so perfectly. The sensation was
made up of several impressions: knowing I was the first to set
foot here; being alone as though in a great cathedral and walk-
ing almost on tiptoe so as not to disturb the silence of the stones.
Everything contributed to my happiness; the weather was mag-
nificent—never a cloud. I climbed easily and effortlessly, for
the glacier was straightforward. I felt absolutely fit, and one’s
physical well-being immediately reacts on one’s morale. I had
no worries: all the period of preparing and fussing, of trouble

The Col of Good Hope

and uncertainty, was over. I was now enjoying my reward.
How wonderful life was!

“Hullo!” ...I turned round to see Pierre, who'd nearly
caught me up. What a steam-engine! I stopped and watched
him. Swinging two ski sticks, he walked along at a very decent
pace in spite of the heavy sack he was carrying. I envied his
speed. Of course Pierre was acclimatised, but over and above
that he was a naturally tough chap. I reflected how wise I’d
been to ask him to join the expedition, he was clearly a great
asset.

He caught up with me, and he, too—it must have been some-
thing to do with the place and the occasion—expatiated lyric-
ally on the beauty of nature, the charm of this peerless morning,
and his sense of physical and moral well-being. We walked up
together, slanting across to the left, in order to keep at a distance
from the south face. Several stone shoots ran out here, and fresh
tracks made by large boulders rolling down warned us to be
cautious. After an hour we stopped to wait for Nalni Jayal and
the Sherpas. I looked at my altimeter, which registered 16,900
feet. Soin 2} hours we had climbed almost 1,500 feet—not bad
going.

We sat down on two large flat stones and admired the land-
scape. Beneath us, just at the top of the moraine up which we
had come a few days ago, we could see the Base Camp. The
grey and yellow patches made by the tents contrasted with the
brown and bluish-coloured stones and with the black and green
rocks of the wall surrounding the camp. We had christened the
glacier on which we were now sitting the Glacier of the First
August in honour of Pierre Vittoz—for it was the Swiss National
Holiday. On the right it ran gently down, and then with a
change in the angle of the ground it suddenly turned into an
ice-fall which plunged down to the Fariabad Nal. Facing it on
the far side was an immense ice-wall with several summits in the
neighbourhood of 18,000 feet. Pierre and Michel had climbed
up on this side to a height of about 14,700 feet in order to choose
a site for our Base Camp and pick out the route which we were
following to-day. The Zaskar mountains formed the backcloth
to the scene—a wonderful forest of peaks, and so far quite
unexplored.

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

Then, as the rest of the party were so long arriving, we lay
back with our hats over our eyes to protect ourselves from the
fierce rays of the sun, and talked at length about the history of
the Nun Kun massif.

‘Tell me Bernard, since you’ve gone into the question, how
long has Nun Kun been known?”

“Since the end of the nineteenth century. General Bruce—
later of Everest—was the first to visit the massifin 1898. He was
followed by two Britons in 1902, Dr. Arthur Neve, and the Rev.
C. E. Barton; then in 1903 by a Dutchman, P. Sillem, and his
wife. And in 1904 Neve and Barton continued the exploration.
Finally, Neve returned alone in 1g10. All these explorers only
made preliminary reconnaissances, mainly on the Shafat
Glacier, to the east of the massif, but they also explored the west
side of Nun Kun.”

“What about the Bullock Workmans?”’

“They studied the district much more thoroughly and made
a complete tour of the mountain in 1906. Coming from Suru in
the north, they went down the Rangdum Valley, crossed the
Suru river to the east, and went up the Shafat Glacier in a south-
westerly direction. They then penetrated into the heart of the
massif and were the first to come near to Nun, which was on
their left, and Kun, which rose a mile or two away, straight in
front of them. They made three fine ascents: the Nieves Peni-
tentes (c. 19,000 feet); 4 peak D41, so marked on the Indian
Survey map—a summit of over 18,000 feet—and another which
they named Pinnacle Peak, rising to a height of over 22,600 feet.
Mrs. Bullock Workman alone reached the summit of Pinnacle
Peak with the guide, Cyprien Savoye, and a porter. At the time
it was the highest point ever reached.”

“For a lady mountaineer in skirts, it was a very fine perform-
ance.”

“Mrs. Bullock Workman was certainly full of the spirit of
competition. She had sworn to beat the record established by
her fellow countrywoman, the journalist Annie S. Peck, on
Huascaran in the Peruvian Andes, with Swiss guides.”

1 So called because its glacier formation resembles that of the Andes,
where Nieves Penitentes are masses of ice shaped by the wind so that their
bases are thinner than their tops.

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A Mountain Called Nun Kun

“Women will go to all lengths to score off each other!”

“After these exploits—and they really were exploits; don’t
forget that I’m talking about the beginning of the twentieth
century when Himalayan climbing had only just begun—the
Bullock Workman expedition continued in a southerly direction
to complete the tour of the massif. The couple were seen at
Fariabad, which we passed too. Then they followed up the
Fariabad Nal, as we did, and continued to ascend until they
reached a col to the north of the massif which they named the
Barmal La. Then a second col was crossed, the Sentik La, and
finally they reached Suru again. The trip had lasted two
months. It must be regarded as the only thorough exploration
of the massif. And the Bullock Workmans were also the first
to do any real climbing in this district, for they made these three
ascents, and their Pinnacle Peak is the third highest point of the
massif,”

‘‘What about Kun?” continued Pierre, ‘‘Wasn’t it climbed
quite soon after?”

“Yes. Kun, which is 23,246 feet, was climbed in 1913 by an
Italian expedition led by Count Calciati. Mario Piacenza,
Lorenzo Borelli, Joseph Gaspard (a guide from Valtournanche),
and the native porter Ali Rahin got to the top, on the 3rd of
August—so there’s hope that we, too, will stand a good chance,
in spite of the monsoon.”

Then Pierre wanted to know how it was that for over twenty
years no one had attempted the twin summit, Nun.

“‘At the time there was no Pakistan and no independent India.
Mountaineers were far more interested in 8,000- and 7,000-
metre peaks in the Karakoram, which were easily accessible,
than in Nun Kun.”

“I suppose that’s it. But what about Harrison and Waller in
1934, and Berry, Stobart,! and James in 1946—didn’t they all
try to climb Nun?”

“Well, the massif is comparatively close to Srinagar: a little
over sixty miles to the east as the crow flies. People who, for one
reason or another, hadn’t much time to spare were bound to
cast covetous eyes on an unclimbed peak of this height.”

“I wonder why the 1946 expedition again chose the east ridge.

1 Tom Stobart, member of the 1953 Everest Expedition.

The Col of Good Hope

Waller, who came back in 1937 to reconnoitre the west ridge,
thought this route more hopeful than the east ridge.”’

“Yes, it does seem odd. I only discovered Waller’s report in
the Himalayan Journal after I had read the accounts of the 1934
and 1946 expeditions, and I was much impressed by it. And
what’s more the photographs which he brought back seemed to
me so convincing that I wrote to you suggesting we should give
up the east ridge in favour of the west, where chances seemed
much better. And you wrote back agreeing. But tell me, Pierre,
we’ve never really talked about your trip in 1952. How did it

0?”

And Pierre, with his charming Vaudois accent, described the
reconnaissance:

“You can imagine how interested I was by Nun. It’s the only
seven-thousander in my parish, and I’ve been fascinated by it
ever since I arrived at Leh. Often and often I had admired it
from a distance, and one day I made up my mind to have a go
at it, after having trained myself on a few peaks of 20,000 feet or
so in the district.

‘I had made friends with a New Zealander, a major, who
lived at Srinagar. He hadn’t much alpine experience, but as he
had spent the whole of one summer wandering about between
10,000 and 16,000 feet I decided that he must be pretty tough
and enterprising. So we arranged to meet at Kargil, at the foot
of the massif. This was in August 1952. We hadn’t any Sherpas,
which was a drawback, but it was too lengthy and expensive to
get them to come from Darjeeling. IJ had to make do with some
Ladakis who had no experience or equipment. Nor had we very
much equipment ourselves; but I had brought a certain amount
with me from Switzerland, including three tents, which might
be enough. My intention was to attack Nun from the east as the
British had done. I knew nothing of Waller’s reconnaissance,
and had no idea that there was a route on the west. Although
our chances of success were small, it was still worth making an
attempt. You know that in my profession, more than in any
other, you’re forbidden to despair. So I left Leh, happy to be
on my way to the mountains again. But alas, I had only just
reached Kargil when I learned that Major Brown had been
refused permission to join me. I didn’t allow myself to be

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

discouraged, so I went off all the same to take advantage of this
opportunity to admire Nun from close at hand. Instead of fol-
lowing the route taken by the British parties, I decided to recon-
noitre the approach to the west ridge. I climbed up to a view-
point almost at the foot of it, accompanied by a Ladaki who had
an extraordinary sense of balance, in spite of sandals with
smooth soles tied on with thongs. He declared that he had never
had any experience of this sort of terrain. I wondered what he
would have been like if he’d had my training and boots! From
our view-point—which I expect we shall shortly see from the
Col of Good Hope—I was able to examine Nun at leisure. I was
amazed when I discovered the west ridge. Undoubtedly it was
steeper and more direct than the east ridge, but at least it was
free from those nasty-looking humps and formidable cornices
which stopped the British party 2,000 feet from the summit. I
had succeeded in satisfying myself that I had found the way up
Nun. And when you wrote to me, I was delighted to be able to
confirm your opinion by telling you of my own findings. That
is the story of my first encounter with this mountain. Now we'll
have a go at it together.”

We had talked long enough to allow Nalni Jayal, Ang Thar-
kay, and the Sherpas to catch up with us. We could see the por-
ters doubled under enormous loads, which included everything
necessary for a high camp: tents, air-mattresses, sleeping-bags,
nylon ropes, cooking-stoves, pots and pans, and provisions of all
kinds. These men are terrific! Although they were carrying
more than fifty pounds they climbed steadily, possibly slightly
slower than we did, but they were barely out of breath. They
pressed their foreheads against a broad band which was passed
round the loads holding them close to their backs. To preserve
their balance, they moved along with their heads well forward;
with one hand they stuck in their ice-axes, which they used to
steady themselves, the other rested on one of the bands.

We started off again, going ahead of the Sherpas, and made
tracks in the snow, which had begun to melt in the hot midday
sun. It balled up under the soles of our boots, it was an effort
to lift our feet, and the going became really stiff. Beads of
sweat stood out on our foreheads, and our breath came in
gasps.

The Col of Good Hope

‘““One or two more experiences like this and you'll be the first
to advise early starts,’’ Pierre flung at me. “I’m a great believer
in them. The snow’s so much better then because it’s harder.
I’ve had reason to appreciate this more than once since I started
climbing in the Himalaya.”

“‘That’s rather an old story, isn’t it?”

“Not altogether. Believe me, conditions here change far more
quickly than in the Alps.”

“Y’m sure you're right.”

An hour later we were at the foot of the great rock shoulder
on the crest of which lay our precious Col of Good Hope. There
were a few patches of snow and névé here and there on the slopes,
which appeared far steeper from near at hand.

Now we had to decide a technical question: should we turn
the shoulder on the left, or go straight up? Either method had
its advantages and disadvantages. A detour to the left might be
long, but without difficulty. The direct route was shorter, but
the rock was rotten, and there would be danger from falling
stones. There was a division of opinion. Nalni was for turning
the shoulder on the left. Pierre and I preferred the direct route,
and as it was two to one, our view prevailed.

For an hour and a half we made our way over horrible screes
running with water and melting snow. We floundered about in
this mush, making prodigious efforts to keep our balance on
boulders that rolled away from under our feet. The face up
which we were climbing was sheltered from the wind, and it was
absolutely stifling. Baked in the pitiless rays of the sun, many a
time we stopped to moisten our lips in the deliciously cool waters
of a little rivulet that ran down beside a rock slab.

At last the slope eased, and at one-thirty we came out on to
the Col of Good Hope at 17,700 feet. Our first look was for the
west ridge, and for a few moments we just stood there gazing
stupidly. Pierre broke the silence:

“Well, if this is what you call the Col of Good Hope, you
might as well un-christen it at once. Just look at that!”

Straight in front of us rose an enormous tower of snow, rock,
and ice, at least 2,000 feet high, barring the approach to the
west ridge. It was formidable indeed, and it frightened us.
Climbing it would have been difficult enough in the Alps. But

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

there the summit would have been at about 13,000 feet, whereas
here it was between 19,000 and 20,000 feet.

“T say, Pierre, it’s horribly steep. Can you see with your
glasses whether at least it connects with the ridge?”

“Yes, I think so, but I’m not sure. And ifit does, we'll have to
go beyond the junction to establish Camp II—I think I can
see a little plateau.”

All this was not very heartening. Even admitting that we
could make it, there were the Sherpas, with their heavy loads—
supposing the ground proved too difficult for them?

Next we transferred our attention to the left of the tower,
where there appeared to be an ice-fall. From our present posi-
tion we couldn’t see clearly, for the tower blocked the view.
Pierre handed me the glasses and I scanned this other defence
of Nun at length.

“Well, what do you see?” .

“I can see a slope, much less steep than the tower. On the
other hand, it looks to me as though those seracs are on the point
of collapsing. Not very safe.”

Disappointed, indeed pretty well discouraged, I passed the
glasses to Nalni, who cautiously reserved his opinion. Then I
said to Pierre:

“There’s not much option. To-morrow we'll make a recon-
naissance of the tower and the ice-fall. To get a general idea
we'll go down to that big glacier than runs along beside the
shoulder and the north-west face of Nun.” !

“I quite agree,” said Pierre.

Then we lay down on the stones, our eyes fixed on Nun. Its
summit, so near and yet so far, looked scarcely real, and we were
fascinated by the snow cone standing out against the blue sky.
But the sun and the altitude between them had made us drowsy,
and very soon we fell fast asleep.

When we woke the Sherpas had already got to work on the
scree and built platforms. Three tents were soon pitched, the
air-mattresses blown up, and the sleeping-bags put ready. A
small cave was hollowed out of the ice for provisions, and the
equipment was carefully stowed in one of the tents. In no time
the lonely col was made quite habitable. We congratulated

1 Named the Ganri glacier by the Bullock Workmans.

The Col of Good Hope

Ang Tharkay and his Sherpas. Our Sirdar, with the everlasting
smile which lights up his face, replied in a few words of Tibetan,
which Pierre translated: ““Ang Tharkay quotes from a Tibetan
proverb: He who knows how, can live comfortably, even in hell.”

Four o’clock already: it was high time to send Kami, Ang
Phuter, and Pa Norbu back to Base Camp, to come up again
next day with the second group. I gave them a message: ““Camp
I established at 17,700 feet. Go up the glacier as far as the rock
shoulder which you can see from Base Camp. Keep away from
the south face (stone-falls). We climbed up direct, over loose
scree. You'll find another way, longer but safer, by contouring
round the shoulder on the left. We thought it would be possible
to reach the west ridge at once. In fact, the way is barred by a
great tower that does not look at all attractive. We’re not even
sure if we can climb it. Left of the tower there is a big ice-fall
which we can’t see well from here, but which doesn’t look very
safe. All rather perplexing. To-morrow we'll reconnoitre.
Start very early: the heat’s infernal.”

In fact, we were literally roasting. It was ghastly. I don’t
remember ever being so uncomfortable, even in the mountains
of the Hoggar in the middle of the Sahara. If we stayed outside
we risked sunstroke. But inside the tents we practically fainted
from lack of air. We stripped our clothes off one by one till we
were almost naked; but it was no use. “‘What a cauldron!”
sighed Pierre. “Heavens, we'll evaporate!” Neither Nalni nor
I had the strength to say anything. Until the sun at last dis-
appeared, we just had to put up with the dreadful ordeal.

* * * * *

August 2 was a glorious morning. After the experience of the
day before, Pierre, Ang Tharkay, and I started off very early.
Nalni was suffering from mountain sickness and stayed in camp.
We went down the Ganri glacier, which flowed gently north-
ward, hemmed in between Nun on the right and Peak D41 on
the left. This was the great glacier which James Waller had
ascended in 1937 in order to examine the possibilities of climb-
ing the west ridge, and which Pierre Vittoz had seen from his
view-point in 1952. An hour after leaving camp we reached the
foot of the ice-fall, but the sight of this immense frozen cataract,

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

with its tottering seracs, and all ploughed up by rock falls and
avalanches, was scarcely encouraging. The angle of the ice-fall
was not at all formidable—it would have been an easy matter to
go up it to the site of the future Camp II. But it would have
meant running tremendous risks.

“H’m. Looks pretty unhealthy,” remarked Pierre.

I could only agree. What would Ang Tharkay’s opinion be?
His views carried great weight, for he was an old hand and had
probably seen more ice-falls than we were ever likely to do in
all our mountaineering. And then the Sherpas had absolute
faith in him and would follow him wherever he went.

Ang Tharkay studied the fall at length. He was not very
enthusiastic either.

“No good, Sahib,” he announced. ‘‘Dangerous.”’

What about the tower? Seen from our present position, it
was even more impressive than from Camp I. True, we were
very close up, almost right up against it, and this made it seem
even steeper.

‘Pierre, will you go with Ang Tharkay and reconnoitre the
base of the tower? I’d rather stay here and not do much. I
don’t feel very fit yet, I suppose it’s the height.”

“Right you are.”

Off they went. I put my sack down on the snow, sat on it, and
got out the glasses. They attacked the first snow bridge. Pierre
was leading, and he set a pace that again filled me with admira-
tion. Nature had certainly blessed him with a sound constitu-
tion. Legs, wind, and stomach—Pierre had a digestion like an
ostrich—are a sine qud non for a Himalayan climber.

The easy but dangerous ice-fall; or the tower—difficult, but
not apparently dangerous. Which should it be? I was a bit
gloomy.

Hullo, the party had already gained height! They appeared
to be making rapid progress without difficulty. Was the angle
of the tower not as steep as we had supposed? For two hours
Pierre and Ang Tharkay climbed without stopping. Suddenly
they halted. Again I was a prey to doubt. Pierre made a sign,
and I understood it to mean that they would both go back to
Camp I direct, for to return to where I was would entail a
detour. Anxious and pensive, I made my way back alone to-

The Col of Good Hope

ward the tents, turning round continually to glance first at the
tower, then at the ice-fall. I weighed up the pros and cons.
Pierre, Ang Tharkay, and I reached the camp almost together.
Pierre was very cheerful and Ang Tharkay one big grin.

“Bernard, don’t make that face. Nun’s in the bag! The
angle of the tower is much less steep than we thought. Of course
the top section and the junction between the tower and the
plateau are difficult. But I am certain we can make it. Listen:
I’m certain!”

“But you turned back?”

“That was because we had no crampons.”’

“Oh, I see. That’s a relief.”

Pierre gave me a great thump on the back, repeating: “‘Nun’s
in the bag. It’s all right, it’s a cert!’

“Yes, maybe. I hope to heaven you’re right. But it'll take a
fortnight at least, if not longer.”

*Y’m with you there.”

*‘What does Ang Tharkay think?”

‘*He entirely agrees that we should take the tower route.”

“Good. In that case the Sherpas can go ahead. That’s one
problem settled; it’s a weight off my mind.”

‘And now to work!” cried Pierre, attacking a tin of sardines,
which he swallowed in less time than it takes to tell.

As we ate we talked things over and laid down the founda-
tions for our future plan of action.

On the following day a reconnaissance would be started at
once by Pierre, Ang Tharkay, and two Sherpas. The difficult
sections would be prepared, large steps cut—real buckets—and
fixed ropes placed in position, fastened to ice pitons; they are a
great help to the Sherpas when they are carrying loads: they use
them to keep their balance and, if necessary, to pull themselves
up. They also contribute to their sense of security. Finally,
the reconnaissance party would dump loads as high up as
possible, with all the equipment necessary to establish Camp II
plus some provisions. In order to save food Nalni and I would
return to Base Camp. The others—those who would be coming
up—would spend the night and the following day at Camp I to
become acclimatised. Depending on the results of the recon-
naissance, another team, made up of the fittest members, would

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

then establish Camp II. After that, we should see. The pro-
gramme was, never to forget the question of acclimatisation,
and to proceed upward in successive stages.

Pemba announced that the sahibs were coming up, and were
nearly at the camp. Twenty minutes later, they arrived, dead
tired, and terribly thirsty, and flopped down on the stones.

‘J don’t know what you were thinking of to suggest our turn-
ing the shoulder on the left,”’ said Jean with the air of a martyr.

‘There was no end to it,” declared Michel. ‘It was just like
Mont Blanc after the Grands Mulets: one slope after another.”

K. C. Johorey agreed, smiling:

‘We followed your orders, chief. But we very nearly had to
give up.”

Faced with this concerted recrimination, Pierre and I con-
cluded philosophically :

“Was it too long? Good, that’s just what we wanted to
know!”

In future, we'd stick to our original route. But we’d need to
be very careful of falling stones.

‘““Where’s Claude?”’

“Her blisters are still too painful. She stayed at the camp,”
said Michel. ‘She told me to tell you that she has prepared a
real feast.”

Comfortably seated on packing-cases, with a table in front
and the food depot close at hand, we should be able to have a
first-class meal—a very cheering thought.

So off we went to Base Camp, as quickly as possible: Nalni
still not feeling well, K. C., who had had quite enough coming
up in the morning and did not wish to diminish the slender food-
stocks unnecessarily, myself, and three Sherpas. The latter
would go up again the following day with fresh loads of equip-
ment and provisions for the high camps. We disappeared down
the crumbling face of the buttress. The way was now well
marked, for the precariously balanced boulders had been pushed
over by the Sherpas, who, with their usual flair, had improved
the track by judicious detours. As a result the route no longer
presented more than a slight danger, for there was now prac-
tically no risk of falling stones. Once down on the glacier we let
ourselves go down the slope with great strides, almost running.

The Col of Good Hope

Two hours later we arrived at Base Camp, to be welcomed on
our arrival by a few mountain choughs, who quickly flew off.
Claude had seen us from afar and had prepared tea, which we
swallowed in bowls. She was insatiable for information, and pes-
tered me with questions. Sitting in our “‘living-room”’ I told her
the sequence of operations, ending with: “I really got quite
worked up.”

“T realised that, all right, when I read your message. But I
also thought that the sun must have been very hot just then.”

“Yes, I expect so. But now there is every reason to be optimis-
tic. Camp I is established, and the route settled. To-morrow
Pierre, Ang Tharkay, and two Sherpas will make every effort to
mark out and equip a route up the Tower. Camp II should be
established before long. We can be quite satisfied with the way
things are going.”

Towards evening we had visitors. Two coolies arrived with
ninety pounds of rice, which we had ordered at Kishtwar. They
also brought the mail, which we devoured eagerly—letters from
our parents, who anxiously followed the doings of their mad
children. We had also asked the porters to buy us some fresh
meat in the shape of a goat. They explained that in the last
village they had found one all right, but it only had one eye.
For this reason they didn’t bring it. Apparently the eye is a
much prized delicacy in these parts.

The day ended with an extraordinary sunset. The Col of
Good Hope stood out against a violet sky, while the glacier of
the First of August and the immense wall of the south face
gradually darkened. The seracs crowning this face turned, in the
space of a few seconds, all the colours of the rainbow—gold,
rose, purple. And then, suddenly, the mountain was swallowed
up by night.

* * * * *

The following day there was a change of scene: about eight
inches of snow!

“Rather depressing,”’ said Nalni, when we had all collected
on the main square at Base Camp.

With our hands in our pockets, bundled up in our bulky down
Jackets and looking like advertisements for Michelin tyres, we

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

gazed around. Visibility was almost nil: Zaskar and its forest of
peaks had disappeared, and the Col of Good Hope was lost in
mist. Here and there parts of the south face were visible through
a break in the clouds. The wall of schistose rocks near the camp
oozed water; it had stopped snowing. We shivered in the keen
icy breeze.

Sadly we made our way to the mess tent, where breakfast was
awaiting us; it was as good a way as any other to pass the time.

“There must be quite a packet of snow up at Camp I,” I said
to Claude. ‘They will certainly not have gone on a recon-
naissance.””

“Yes, it'll mean beginning all over again, worse luck.”

About midday the higher party arrived looking disconsolate.
At any rate Camp I was established, which was something to be
thankful for. But we couldn’t conceal the fact that Nun had won
the second round.

Camp I (17,700 feet) and the Tower, with the summit of Nun behind, to the left.

-a4quaa ay) ur pot

-a9r ayy dn (&) 40 §(74824) 2 ? I) a4am unyy fo adprs qsam ay] 0} SajnOd aQUYDULA}ID ay T

CHAPTER V
THE KEY TO NUN

‘“‘THERE’s no reason to be downhearted,”’ said Pierre. ‘‘Pass me
the hors d’ceuvres.”” And he went to the attack—not of the
Tower but of tunny fish and sardines! Everybody, as usual,
protested.

“Well, I see that living in Tibet is good for the appetite,”
observed Michel.

“‘He’s an eating-machine, that man,” declared Jean. Nalni
was afraid he’d exhaust the food supplies.

I made a quick calculation of what the ‘‘eating-machine”’ con-
sumed in a day—over three pounds. In sixty days that made
just on 200 pounds: nearly four porters’ loads. Delighted with
the result of my mental arithmetic, I informed Pierre that four
per cent of the coolies had been employed just to carry his food,
and its weight was about equal to his own. His enormous appe-
tite laid him open to a good deal of teasing. He took it all very
well; except for occasional outbursts, he was a remarkably good-
tempered man. As a companion he was no less dynamic and
enthusiastic than as a climber; always in splendid form, always
offering to do whatever job was going. The Sherpas adored him,
and as well as the nickname “‘Nono’’, little brother, they gave
him the very flattering appellation of “‘Coucho’’, incarnation.

He wasn’t the only one to be made fun of. We all teased each
other, and even the M.O., who was the eldest of us, came in for
his share. The year before, on Salcantay, we had called him
““Nyaka”’ because whenever any problem arose he had a habit
of saying il n’y a qu’d faire ceci ou cela. Not that he didn’t enter
wholeheartedly into the discussions when something really im-
portant was at stake. This year, on Nun, we decided to give him
the nickname “‘C’est normal’’, The reason for it was that Jean
was only interested in serious medical cases; and later on did
miracles in this line. But he couldn’t be bothered with trivial
ailments such as colds, loss of voice, slight constipation, or
diarrhoea, and whenever any of us complained of these, he

F 81

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

invariably replied, “‘C’est normal.”” So, whenever anyone told him
“Tve got a cough” or “I’ve got a tummy-ache’’, we’d then all
reply in chorus, ‘‘C’est normal.’ But we had absolute confidence
in him, and we knew just how good a member of a party he
could be. The year before, on Salcantay, he had given up all
his own chances and stayed at Camp II as a reserve, so that we
could reach the summit. We were really fond of him, even
though he hadn’t the most angelic of tempers. He was a first-
class climber, and under his apparent indifference there burned
an ardent love of the mountains.

To continue our candid character-sketches. Michel Desorbay
was the baby of the party. He was always particular about his
appearance, even above 16,000 feet, but most of all down in the
plains wherever there were any pretty girls around. There was
seldom a hair out of place, and the side-whiskers which he had
grown were trimmed every day with infinite care. Nevertheless,
this dandy knew how to cope with hardship. He had proved
this in 1952 when he led a successful expedition to Spitzbergen,
where they endured appalling weather conditions. The Sherpas
called him “the quiet man”. He had just that degree of easy
indolence which is rather attractive. He was always good-
tempered, and without appearing to hurry he got through a
considerable amount of work. He was absolutely reliable, and
before we started he collected all our equipment without fuss,
and with great attention to detail. He was very strong and
would undoubtedly pass the high-altitude test easily. A con-
firmed camper, he had tips for every awkward situation. Thus
he was the champion of the “Elastoplast method”, and he
counted on overcoming every difficulty with the 200 yards of
the stuff which he had brought with him. To add to his accom-
plishments he wrote in a very pleasing style.

Now for Claude—a real wonder! At the end of an expedition
all the men have lost weight, but Claude gains. It’s quite un-
canny. Her appetite is second only to Pierre’s. On a mountain
this extraordinary scrap of a woman—barely five feet high, and
seven and a half stone—is as good as a man. She keeps up a
good pace, has a superb technique, and a flair for route-finding.
And to crown everything, a will of iron. She is, in short, a very
great mountaineer. She was quite hardened to male conversa-

The Key to Nun

tion, and never raised an eyebrow at our broader stories—the
padre was a great one for them. But although Claude is any
man’s equal on the mountains, she is also extremely feminine:
she didn’t forget her nail-file, nor her jars of cream, nor her
looking-glass. We all agreed that a woman is an invaluable
asset to an expedition—even if it were only for the odd job of
repairing and for thinking up menus!

Our two Indians were both charming; but how different from
each other! Nalni, who came of a high-caste family, was a com-
plete thoroughbred—and the Sherpas nicknamed him ‘‘Son of
the Emperor of China’, on account of his elegant manners. He,
too, always looked spick and span, and the sight of water was to
him an invitation to wash. Neither he nor K. C. ever stirred
without a battery of tooth-brushes. The rest of us had only one
each, and I suspect Nalni thought us Europeans a disgusting lot.
He was also by way of being a poet—which may already have
been apparent—as well as a man of culture. He brought with
him two of Pandit Nehru’s books, and he wrote with consider-
able talent himself. And of course he loved mountains—other-
wise he wouldn’t have been there.

K. C., too, loved mountains, but in his own fashion. Nalni
would have come to terms with them, whereas K. C. would
rather conquer by force. That was Big Jo’s nature; he was like
a tank forging straight ahead. He was a most reliable chap, and
always ready to lend a hand. He had great resilience, as his first
trip to the Himalaya proved, when he went to over 23,000 feet
on Kamet. He was a thoroughly good chap.

Nor did the Bara Sahib escape the general scrutiny. One day
he had the misfortune to say to the others: “I’m doing the think-
ing for you,”’ whilst watching them at work. After that he was
called ‘“‘the brain with the idle hands”. Michel wrote of him
“the indispensable instigator, and walking Himalayan encyclo-
pedia”. I won’t say more out of regard for his modesty.

As for our friends the Sherpas, I shall be speaking of them
ater.
* * * * *

When we left the mess-tent to go back to the warmth of our
sleeping-bags, the weather had not much improved. In the

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

middle of the afternoon the sun made a timid attempt to pierce
the clouds, but soon the mist descended again upon the camp.
Snow-flakes fluttered down. To-morrow, for a certainty, we'd
still be at Base Camp.

When we woke it was snowing: a fine snow which fell gently
and slowly, but persistently as a November drizzle. We might
indeed have expected this—it had been too fine on the way out.
We consoled ourselves with the thought that snow and rain
during the approach march would have been a fearful handicap.
Perhaps the porters would have refused to go on—perhaps Pierre
and Michel would not have been able to pick out and recon-
noitre a site for our Base Camp, for the simple reason that Nun
would not have been visible.

It snowed all day on August 4, and during the following
night. When we awoke on August 5 we no longer heard the dull
sound of snow-flakes on the tent, and sprang to look outside: it
was not snowing, but there was plenty of mist. The barely-
glimpsed towers of the south face seemed to be out of this world,
and more mysterious than ever. In the afternoon the sun made
a rather feeble appearance, and immediately our morale im-
proved. Already plans began to take shape, although the rumb-
ling of avalanches down the south face underlined the realities
of the situation. Gradually a few gaps appeared in the curtain.
The sun gained strength. The banks of mist slowly dispersed,
and the last part of the day was fine. No further encouragement
was needed to arouse a desire for action, immediate action. We
decided to attack the Tower.

“Claude and Pierre, you’ll leave to-morrow for Camp I,” I
said abruptly. Claude’s eyes lit up: she was longing to pit her-
self against the mountain. Pierre, too, was aglow with pleasure
—there was no need for either of them to reply! Ang Tharkay
and two porters would go with them. There was no point in
wasting a day’s provisions; two Sahibs and three Sherpas were
quite enough for a reconnaissance of the Tower. The assign-
ment was still the same: to go as high as possible, to prepare the
difficult passages, dump the loads of equipment and food neces-
sary to establish Camp II, and then descend to Camp I.

The rest of us— Michel, Jean, Nalni, and I and the Sherpas—
would then join them, take over, and establish Camp II and

The Key to Nun

perhaps prospect the following day for the future Camp III.
K. C. would unfortunately no longer be with us, for his leave
had expired and he was due to go back.

Very early in the morning there was a general upheaval at
Base Camp, for by the time the decision had been taken the
evening before it had been too late to prepare for the party’s
departure. With renewed enthusiasm, everyone set to work,
Sherpas and sahibs—even, indeed, the “brain with idle hands”’.

Equipment, food, and medical supplies were rapidly assembled,
thanks to lists prepared in advance, and stowed straight into our
sacks. The equipment included, among other things: sleeping-
units (air-mattresses and sleeping-bags), high-altitude tents
from the Annapurna and Nanda Devi expeditions, nylon ropes,
karabiners, pitons, line, a cacolet} in case we had to carry an
injured man, two oxygen cylinders, snow shovels, spare cram-
pons. Next came the food: tubes of condensed milk, nougat,
jam, tea, sugar, oatmeal, corn-flakes, fruit-juice, tinned fruit in
syrup, dried fruit, sweets, chocolate, pain d’épices, tins of vege-
tables, fish and meat, rice, potato powder, ham, saucisson, cheese,
pemmican, and even whisky. There were also candles, flasks,
Thermoses, cooking-apparatus, stoves, and of course the in-
valuable Calor gas containers. The M.O. had selected a whole
range of medical supplies, among them a great variety of sleep-
ing-tablets, and pills and potions for throat infections—sleepless-
hess, ulcerated throats, and coughs are the most persistent
enemies of the Himalayan climber. Nor did Jean forget to take
supplies for dealing with frost-bite—heaven forbid we should
need them!

In addition to all this we each took our own personal equip-
ment: eiderdown jacket, glasses, spare socks and gloves, outer
clothing of nylon, pied d’éléphant,? and so on. It was a scene of
feverish activity, with Claude and Pierre champing to be off.
The Sherpas were fooling about and playing tricks on each
other. Those of us who were staying behind were so excited
that to calm ourselves down a bit we decided to accompany the

? A carrying-frame made of canvas and straps worn like a rucksack, in
which an injured climber can sit.

* A watertight nylon bag used for bivouacs in the Alps. It pulls on up to
the thighs.

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

reconnaissance party as far as the foot of the rock spur. At
eleven-thirty the whole party moved off. Claude at once went
ahead and set an infernal pace in order to make up for her
forced inactivity—and also, I was sure, to show the Sherpas
what she was made of. They must have been asking themselves
what on earth this poor little woman was doing in such com-
pany! I took it easy, stopping to take photographs, and to film
the avalanches on the south face, and arrived at the foot of the
spur three-quarters of an hour behind the others, just in time to
wish good luck to our two friends and their Sherpas Ang Thar-
kay, Gyaldzen, Pa Norbu, and Ang Phuter.

We stopped for a bit on the glacier of the First of August and
watched the others climbing up (it is always an exquisite
pleasure to watch ’other people sweating away), then made
our way back to Base Camp. On the way I confided to
Michel:

“TI am very anxious. There’s no doubt the Tower is the key
to Nun. This reconnaissance will decide our fate one way or the
other.”

“Don’t worry, I am certain it will be all mght. You were
quite right to send Claude and Pierre. I’m sure they’ll make
it.”

“I think so too.”

I smiled into my beard, now quite a respectable length; I was
pleased with our plan for outwitting Nun.

The afternoon was much more peaceful, now the tension had
relaxed, and we quietly got ready all we would need to take
with us next day. We were brimming over with optimism and
built many castles in the air: reconnaissance of the Tower,
Camp II, reconnaissance, Camp III, then the summit. Just as
though we were masters of the sky! At Base Camp one sees
everything through rose-coloured spectacles. But as soon as one
goes high, one’s will-power seems to evaporate, one’s senses are
deadened, physical energy diminishes, and all at once the out-
look becomes quite different.

Just then a message from the party above confirmed all this
only too clearly. It was a note from Claude brought by a Sherpa
returning from Camp I, and it acted as a douche of cold
water.

The Key to Nun

“The tents are full of water and half collapsed. It’s im-
possible to give the inventory of food supplies that Bernard
asked for. Everything is under the snow. In any case bring
up sugar and high-altitude tinned food. Equipment: as
well as what we decided, bring up two air-mattresses and
two down sleeping-bags. Also mending things, including
some nylon to repair the tents that have been torn by the
wind. The Tower looks foul. We'll see to-morrow. We're
in good shape.—Claude.

““P.S. The Sherpas are shocked that I’m sharing a tent
with the Padre. What will they think when they see me
change my tent-mate two or three times a week!”

The M.O. frowned. He was pessimistic on principle. And
we teased him about it—also on principle. Next day appeared
to prove him right, for it rained. The Col of Good Hope was
invisible, lost in the clouds.

“T don’t think it is worth going up,” I said. ‘Pierre and
Claude will have stayed where they are. However, if the
weather clears it would be advisable to send up a couple of
Sherpas with loads. We'll be that much to the good, whatever
happens.”

At 11 a.m. the weather improved slightly, so Kami and Ang
Phuter set off. Soon the mist cleared, and we could see them go
up, then the sky brightened, and at about twelve o’clock the Col
of Good Hope came in sight.

I grabbed the glasses. Little black specks were moving about.
The reconnaissance party looked as if they were ready to leave,
and in any case there was no point in us going up. There would
not be enough time for our friends to complete their reconnais-
sance, and next day they would have to return to the job. But
the evening was so fine that I bitterly regretted having put off
our departure, and I felt I’d really been guilty of an error of
judgment. I swore, rather late in the day, that I would never be
caught again by false alarms of bad weather. I was learning the
lesson of the Himalaya.

On August 8 the weather was magnificent. Only Nalni re-
mained in camp, for he had not completely recovered from his
upset, and still had some stomach trouble. At eight-thirty,

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

accompanied by Kami, Ang Phuter, and Pemba Norbu, Michel,
Jean, and I said good-bye to him. K. C. was also leaving, but in
the opposite direction. The poor fellow had tears in his eyes—
“I am sure you will get to the top,” he said, by way of fare-
well.

On the glacier of the First of August progress was easy and
rapid—proof that acclimatisation was beginning to take effect.
I kept on telling Michel—‘‘You see, my dear fellow, that
acclimatisation is the key to success. Acclimatisation....”

Michel leaped ahead of me and shouted:

“Vl show you!”

We reached Camp I two and a half hours after leaving Base
Camp. The first time we had taken nearly four hours. We were
in perfect condition and had hardly sweated at all, but of course
we were not yet getting the full force of the sun. We found
Claude, Pierre, and the Sherpas beaming with pleasure.

‘“‘We’ve made it, we’ve climbed the Tower!” they shouted
before we’d even spoken a word. “But what a time it gave us!”

“Good show! Tell us all about it!”

“Well,” began Pierre, “‘we left very late yesterday morning.
As you know, the weather was uncertain. Instead of tackling
the Tower at its base, as I did on August 2 with Ang Tharkay,
we began the ascent very much higher—almost on a level with
the camp. That saved time. The first slopes looked steep, but
by taking advantage of the lie of the ground we arrived half-
way up comparatively quickly. There we met with difficulties,
for the upper half is far steeper, and quite tricky. Actually there
were steep bands of loose rock. There were also pitches of blue
ice covered with a layer of snow. We worked out a route on
rock, building cairns so that we should be able to find the way
in the event of bad weather. The ice-pitches we carefully
equipped with fixed ropes, and cut big steps. We pushed on to
the top of the Tower in order to see what came next. It doesn’t
look bad at all. We saw the junction of the Tower with the west
ridge. Just beyond there is a small, flat space, where, as we'd
supposed, Camp II could be set up.”

“Why didn’t you go on and do it?” I interrupted.

“The junction is difficult to reach—it’s very steep. There will
be a long bout of step-cutting, and the place will have to be

The Key to Nun

equipped with fixed ropes. We were surprised to find it was so
late. It was dark when we got back.”

“‘Well done. You’ve opened the way to the summit. It’s a
pity there’s no more champagne.”

“I say, Claude,” inquired Michel, “are the Sherpas satisfied,
now?”

It was Pierre who answered:

“T should say they are! Do you know what Ang Tharkay said
to me on the summit of the Tower? Mem sahib good, good!”

“Now,” I declared, ‘“‘we must have a plan of action. What a
pity we didn’t come up yesterday! I thought that as you started
so late you wouldn’t have time to finish what you had to do, and
I didn’t want unnecessary mouths to feed at Camp I. If we’d
joined you here sooner, Camp II would have been established
to-day. It’s my fault. Now we must try to make up for lost time.
Claude and Pierre, you must return to Base Camp to rest. We
will keep the Sherpas. Ang Tharkay will show us the way, and
to-morrow we will establish Camp II. From there I hope we
shall be able to make a reconnaissance in the direction of Camp
III. You two will then take over from us at Gamp II and estab-
lish and consolidate Camp III.”

For the moment we were scoring points against Nun. Tech-
nically, the situation was well in hand. Our lines of communica-
tion between Camp I and the future Camp II were well
equipped, and it would be a fairly straightforward trip for the
Sherpas with their loads of food and equipment. We held the
key to Nun.

Physically, we were all in good form, and our morale was very
high. There was one factor, however, which we couldn’t con-
trol: the weather. Our elation was tempered by the memory of
the disappointments we had experienced the year before on
Salcantay: a siege lasting twenty-three days, three ill-fated
attempts, and only a few days of fine weather during which we
had to snatch D-day.

The afternoon was fine and hot, and we got our sacks ready.
The late evening was exceptionally hot—a bad sign—indeed we
were able to eat our dinner outside. There was a flaming sunset,
which boded no good. On the horizon great black streaks
floated in the sky, clearly brewing mischief. It smelt like snow

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

Alas, so it was. Next morning, on August 9, we were awak-
ened by a familiar sound.

“It’s snowing, Michel.”

“All right. So what?”

‘“Well, we shan’t be leaving for the moment. We'll wait a bit.
Perhaps it'll lift.”

“Yes, perhaps. Let’s wait.”

How pleasant was the warmth of our sleeping-bags! We fell
into a doze.

At eight o’clock a Sherpa opened a flap of the tent and handed
us in tea and porridge. We gave a quick look round: snowflakes
were fluttering in a murky mist. We swallowed our breakfast
without much appetite. Drops of moisture, formed by con-
densation, fell on to our sleeping-bags. Insidiously, the humidity
of the atmosphere penetrated our bodies. Things weren’t very
cheerful. It all goes to show how strong our love of mountains
must be, that we should be willing to put up with this sort of
thing. However, as it was our own free choice, we just had to
endure the misery and hang on. In the Himalaya, even more
than elsewhere, tenacity is everything.

“Hope is not essential to endeavour, any more than success is
essential to perseverance,” I quoted priggishly from the Prince
of Orange.

At nine o’clock it was hailing. The wind rose and started to
blow violently on the tents, and hailstones beat on the canvas,
which flapped like a sail. We bemoaned our wretched lot. In
such circumstances one invariably starts dreaming of the Cote
d’Azur. How many times have I not heard climbers swear that
next year they will go to the sea-side?

“Just think of all the lovely girls at this moment walking
about the beaches in Bikinis!’’ sighed Michel.

At eleven o’clock conditions had barely improved, and there
was no longer any question of establishing Camp II that day.
Claude and Pierre had been waiting for a lull before leaving,
but as there was no immediate prospect of one, they decided to
go down to Base Camp in the storm. We felt no call to envy
them.

* * * * *

All day long it alternated snow and hail, and then there was the

The Key to Nun

wind—the Himalayan wind, piercing, disheartening, devilish,
ceaselessly roaring, drowning the noise of the avalanches that
poured down the south face. Jean, who was the heaviest sleeper
of the party, slept through everything. Michel and I endeav-
oured to kill time by chatting.

“T say, Michel, don’t you get demoralised?”’

‘Not in the least. I’ve seen far worse. Do you know that in
Spitzbergen last year we were held up for eight days running by
blizzards. The wind was so strong that inside the tent one had
to yell to make oneself heard. It was enough to drive one crazy.”

Thank Heaven it wasn’t as bad as that. Towards the end of
the evening there was actually a lull, which calmed our nerves
a bit. Hope returned. When night fell a few stars appeared.
At six o’clock in the morning on August 10 the weather was still
sullen, but it was not snowing.

“Well?” inquired Michel anxiously.

“It’s not too good. But I haven’t given up hope. I don’t want
a repetition of our unfortunate experience of August 8. Let’s
wait a bit. After all, it’s very early, and if the sun chooses to
come out it may improve matters. What’s more, it’s cold,
which is a good sign. Doesn’t feel to me as though it’s going to
snow. We’d better prepare, anyway. I think maybe it’ll clear.
We must hang on!”

“Pemba!”

“Yes, sahib?”’

“Cha,} please.”

“All right, sahib.”’

Generally speaking, we had to wait upon the weather, but
to-day the roles seemed to be reversed; obediently the sky
seemed to give in to our wishes. Around seven-thirty a small
patch of blue appeared. I was determined to see spring in this
one swallow, and went over to the tent that Jean shared with
Ang Tharkay.

*‘Jean, it’s very fine now.”

“Really?” he replied sceptically, making a move to go out
and see.

ae don’t go out, Jean,” I said, coming in, “you'll catch
cold.

1 Sherpa for tea. It was one of the few words we knew.

g!I

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

So much solicitude seemed suspect. He answered, with a grin,
“If I understand rightly, you want to start?”’

Ves,”

I turned towards Ang Tharkay, but the rascal had guessed.

“Camp IT, sahib?”

“Atcha.”

Immediately he gave his orders. At eight-thirty the three
sahibs and the six Sherpas, with Ang Tharkay in the lead, left
Camp I. A glance towards the Tower showed it to be half clear
of its sheath of cloud. We were firmly resolved to take our
chance. It would always be possible to retreat if the weather
got worse. But I felt pretty sure that, by evening, Camp II
would be a reality.

CHAPTER VI
THE APPARITION

So this was the Tower which had so terrified us! Now that we
knew it had been climbed it had lost a great deal of its prestige
and power to alarm. With easy minds, we confidently attacked
the first snow slope with Ang Tharkay, who knew the route, in
the lead.

It was hard work breaking trail in the thick layer of new
snow, which balled under our feet so quickly that every ten
yards or so we had to give our boots a sharp tap with the point
of the ice-axe to detach the extra sole of compacted snow. All
the same, we made good time, and after an hour we had gained
a good deal of height. It was then my turn to relieve Ang Thar-
kay. At first the route was easy to pick out. It was just a ques-
tion of ascending the broad snow gully which runs up towards
the Ganri Glacier. The slope was fairly steep, and I had to go
up in zig-zags, sinking deep into the snow, which had to be
stamped down at every step. At one hairpin bend I glanced
back at the procession behind me: Sahibs and Sherpas, climbing
up in complete silence but for their heavy breathing, heads well
forward, bodies bent under the weight of their rucksacks or
loads.

At the top of the couloir a large, flat space with protruding
boulders seemed a good halting-place, and we did not resist the
temptation. In any case it was a well-earned rest—it was ten-
thirty and we had been climbing for two hours. We sat down on
the rocks and nibbled our provisions—nougat, sugar, and choco-
late. We were half-way up the Tower. Secretly, we were rather
disappointed. The obstacle was undoubtedly imposing, but it
had lost the massive quality that had so impressed us. In fact,
the Tower was really only a succession of black-and-white tur-
rets—the beautiful countenance we had admired from afar
turned out to be lined and ravaged.

The crumbling rock made a crenellated outline like a fort or
the Great Wall of China, and dropped away in great steps to

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

end at the Col of Good Hope, where our tents were now no more
than specks: how impossibly frail and ridiculous they looked,
these signs of a temporary occupation! Just about as frail as our-
selves, for with one blow Nun could have swept us off. A mon-
strous convulsion, a cry of terror, and then once more silence.
The inanimate world would continue its existence as though
nothing had happened. As Edward Wyss Dunant puts it, “In the
Himalaya man finds his own measure in face of the eternal.”

Straight ahead of us, the Ganri glacier was a dazzling white
with D41 farther away. It was odd that from our present posi-
tion it looked completely squat, for this twin-topped bastion had
appeared most impressive from below. Between it and the Col
of Good Hope a beautiful little white needle rose up from a
convex mass of black-and-grey rock. We had spotted it as soon
as we'd arrived at Camp I, and had christened it Bamomo, a
Ladaki word which, according to the padre, meant ‘“‘triumphant
one’. Behind this foreground—attractive enough, but a bit
pretty-pretty for our liking—the scale and majesty of the Hima-
laya reasserted themselves. The great Bat Kol glacier described
its magnificent curves through a maze of unknown mountains.
On the horizon we could dimly make out enormous white
shapes, shrouded in cloud. Perhaps the eight-thousanders of the
Karakoram? On our right, quite close at hand, stretched the
Suru valley. I pictured it as even greener and more welcoming
than it must have been in reality, no doubt because of the con-
trast with the desolate world in which we now were. We'd been
resting for half an hour, and it was high time to be getting on
again. Ang Tharkay took over the lead again, for the route be-
came more complicated, zig-zagging through a rocky chaos.
One by one we found the cairns left by the others on August 8—
the pebbles of a Himalayan Tom Thumb. We were faced by
three rock steps, which we avoided by sometimes taking to a
névé and sometimes to a stony couloir. This brought us to the
foot of a terrifically steep slope, undoubtedly the passage about
which Claude and Pierre had spoken. The fixed rope which had
been placed the whole length of it was now nowhere to be seen:
it had disappeared beneath a thick layer of wind-crusted
snow.

Ang Tharkay motioned to us to stop—it was now twelve-

The Apparition

thirty—while he anxiously cast round about for a few minutes,
then finally he decided to go up twenty yards or so, and started
digging in the snow. Suddenly he gave a triumphant yell:

“Sahibs, the rope!”

Down he came again, and I asked him impatiently:

‘Where do we traverse?”

With his axe, he pointed out a line. To begin with, an ascent
of about 300 feet straight up—the length of the fixed rope.
Then, on the left, a wide shelf edged with ice-glazed rock—that
was the traverse. It must have been 150 yards long, and it fol-
lowed the contour of the snow dome immediately beneath the
summit of the Tower—circling it and disappearing behind. It
was there, undoubtedly, that we should find the junction with
the plateau where we planned to establish Camp II. Would this
section be hard? We were really too far off and too directly
underneath to estimate.

The minute Ang Tharkay lowered his ice-axe, I jumped into
his tracks. Somehow, I just leapt forward, and Michel, to whom
I was roped, complained loudly:

““You’re crazy, we'll weary ourselves out.”

“IT don’t want Ang Tharkay to take the lead again. We must
show, as Claude and Pierre have done, that we sahibs are up to
scratch. I’m damn well doing this to satisfy my own self-
respect. To-day when we’re able to make the effort, for heaven’s
sake ‘let’s do so; our self-respect mayn’t be up to it another
time.”

We had reached a large ice-piton, which marked the begin-
ning of the fixed rope. I grabbed it and began to climb up, but
very soon my pace slackened. I had to re-cut the snow-filled
steps, and also chip the rope free of the snow and ice; gruelling
work which set my heart thumping fit to burst.

Half-way up the slope, I turned round to see whether the
others were following. All was well. Behind us Jean, Kami, and
Pa Norbu enlarged the bucket-like steps to make them more
comfortable, while Ang Tharkay brought up the rear, followed
by Gyaldzen and Ang Phuter, who heaved up his load—the
heaviest of all—with a great deal of groaning.

We made many halts to regain our breath, and it was already
one-thirty when we reached the end of the hand-rail.

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

For two hours we had been so absorbed by our labours—eyes
glued to rock or snow, heads bent over the tracks like a plough-
man’s over his furrows—that we had never looked at the sky.
Now we had an unpleasant surprise: clouds had blotted out the
Tower and we were enveloped in mist. We had to get on with
the traverse as quickly as possible. While Michel was bringing
me up a length of line to use as another fixed rope, I got out my
hammer, some ice-pitons and karabiners which I stuffed into
my anorak pocket. I kept one piton out to insert at once; after
clearing away the snow which overlay the ice, I banged in the
ice-piton for all I was worth, until it was right in up to the hilt.
I tested it, and it held perfectly, so I fixed a karabiner to the ring
in the head of the piton and fastened the line to it, taking the
precaution of tying several knots. I uncoiled about twenty
yards, which I would let out as I went ahead, and set off.

The first step out on to the slope was most impressive and
exposed. This time, though not for long, I blessed the mist which
floated beneath us and hid the abyss. The slope was steep, and
the Ganri glacier disappeared into cotton-wool 2,000 feet below.
The start of the traverse went slowly, but the snow held well, for
the ledge had been swept by the wind. One’s feet broke easily
through the crust on top, and progress was safe. About fifteen
yards from the start of the traverse I stopped to put in another
piton and make a stance—banging with the hammer and cut-
ting with the axe. You can do all this in the Alps almost with a
smile on your lips, but here it left one gasping. I had to pause
and get my breath again.

“Is it going all right?” yelled Michel.

“Yes, you can come along to the second piton.”’

“O.K. I’m coming.”

While I was belaying Michel, I gave a quick look round. The
mist had thickened and the light was murky. A few snowflakes
were eddying round, and the wind was rising. No luck! We
were about to be caught in a storm on the trickiest bit of the
route, and yet so close to our goal! Well, we'd have to take it.
We couldn’t let Nun beat us off with this last-minute attack, we
just had to establish Camp II to-day. Michel came up to me
and I carried on with the traverse. The snowflakes were now
falling thick and fast, the squall lashed our faces, and the wind

‘punossasof ay) ur samo yz ayy yjrm unyy fo aovf yynos ay J.

“49m07T au) s9pun Sursszers 7 "TT quo) 0} dom ay) uC

The Apparition

howled. Visibility decreased every minute. After twenty yards
I stopped to put in a third piton. The same actions, the same
breathlessness, the same manceuvres were gone through. I
brought Michel along, and went on again. This time I could
see nothing. The snow was sticking to my goggles, and when I
tried to wipe them with my gloves, I only succeeded in plaster-
ing the snow all over them and everything became blurred. I
pushed them up for a few seconds, but it was no good—the glare
blinded me. Disconcerted, I stopped.

We were in a very awkward situation. Nevertheless, none of
the sahibs was really put out, for, oddly enough, we were happy
—happy to come to grips with Nun and make our presence felt
on the mountain. Were we not making our mark on it by creat-
ing a route? But already the snow, like Penelope, was destroy-
ing our work, effacing our tracks; to-morrow, perhaps, they
would have vanished. No matter—our dream was coming true,
and our mountaineering passion could be given free scope. We
were intoxicated, but it was a cool and reasoned intoxication,
which, in the presence of danger, was translated calmly into our
thoughts and actions.

I was sure that when, later, we relived in memory our adven-
tures on Nun, we should keep a particular affection for this
moment. For myself I know that it is the toughest expeditions—
not necessarily the most difficult—which I have got most out of;
a hard struggle with a mountain and against the forces of nature
has always given me something more than a climb at the limit
of my capabilities beneath a clear sky and fanned by a gentle
breeze.

Now my impatience spurred me on for another ten yards, and
my eyes strained to pierce the mystery of this muffled world. I
succeeded in vaguely making out a steep step and, just behind
and below it, a band of snow which appeared to be flat. But
perhaps I was a victim of my own imagination? J shut my eyes
a moment to rest them, and looked again. No, I was not dream-
ing. It really was the junction of the Tower with the plateau.

I yelled back the good news to Michel: “‘We’ve done it—we’re
there!’’—and a grunt of satisfaction floated up through the mist.
Then I saw that I was too high. We should have to go down,
probably about ten yards. In any case, before doing anything

% 97

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

else, I had to put ina piton. I picked out the longest and strong-
est, for it would have an important part to play. I intended to
pass my own rope through the karabiner attached to the ring in
the piton, as well as the line serving as a hand-rail. I explained
what I was doing to Michel.

‘Let the rope out gradually and I'll slide down.”

“O.K.”

“Hold tight, I’m starting.”

“Right.”

I began descending slowly and without jerking, so as not to
put too much strain on the piton. Then I found myself brought
up short: the rope would not run any more. I had not noticed
that it had worked up right under my armpits and was con-
stricting my ribs and making breathing difficult.

“Michel, give me some slack for heaven’s sake.”

“T can’t, there’s no more rope.”’

In the mist I had miscalculated, thinking there was only about
ten yards to go down, whereas in reality there was about twice
as much. I thought for a moment and then called to Michel:

“Whatever you do, don’t move. I’ve only got the line to hang
on to. Ill cut myself a bucket, and when I’m secure you can
cross to the piton and give me some more rope.”

“Right you are.”

I set to work on the snow, then soon came to ice. Balancing
on my crampons and holding the rope in my left hand, I cut
fiercely to make a roomy stance. The ice-chips flew between my
legs and disappeared into space, and quite soon I had made a
large step. My crampons bit well into the ice and my ice-axe,
driven in deep, gave me a further anchorage. I was well estab-
lished, and I gave the word to Michel to come on.

But I was gasping. Working like a navvy in an awkward posi-
tion and with the rope constricting my chest had left me utterly
breathless. It reminded me of a route on the Saussois (a climb-
ing school in the Yonne department) called “‘the steam-engine’”’.
It can only be climbed by sheer force, and one reaches the top
puffing like an engine.

I got my breath back while I was belaying Michel, at whose
whereabouts I could only guess, so thick was the mist.

“’ve reached the piton,”’ he called out.

The Apparition

I didn’t wait a moment longer. Thirty seconds later I stepped
down gingerly on to a snow-bridge. Would it collapse under my
weight? I prodded cautiously with my ice-axe. It was not too
solid, but should hold all the same. I crossed the bridge, making
myself as light as possible; then I threw technique to the winds
and let myself slide down quickly on my backside, until at last
I set foot on the plateau and heaved a sigh of relief.

In a trice I took off my sack, drove my axe well in, and
twisted both line and climbing-rope around the shaft.

“I’m on the plateau. Come on. I’ve got you firm. Tell the
others to follow.”

“They’re just behind me. Jean’s getting impatient.”

Michel moved down quickly, judging by the rope, which I
had to take in as fast as I could. His remark on reaching me was,
“What a beastly traverse! And what filthy weather.”

“Tt’ll be one of the happiest memories of Nun, you'll see... .

The same manceuvre was repeated for each party. With their
heavy loads the Sherpas moved slowly and hesitantly, as they
had every reason to do. One by one we saw them emerge like
ghosts, their faces plastered with snow. For once Ang Tharkay
had lost his smile.

At last we were all together on a narrow tongue of snow which
should by rights become progressively larger, as it was the be-
ginning of the plateau. I got out my altimeter; it read 19,200,
which meant that we had climbed up about 1,600 feet from
Camp I. This was enough, and there was no need to go any
higher. But where could we pitch camp? My eyes were tired.
I would ask Ang Tharkay to find a site, and at my “Camp,
please’’ off he went with Pemba Norbu. He stopped every two
yards, blinded by the snow, which luckily was falling less heavily.
The wind, too, appeared to have dropped slightly, and the
squalls became less frequent. Perhaps we should have the bene-
fit of a lull. The two Sherpas were still advancing, and from
time to time Ang Tharkay pushed his glasses right up, ignoring
the risk of snow-blindness. He pursued his way imperturbably,
but it was almost like groping in the dark.

Soon they were lost to sight; we remained where we were,
shivering, stamping our feet and clapping our hands to warm
ourselves. The minutes dragged by. I glanced at my watch:

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

three o’clock already. Well, we'd get ourselves out of this mess
all right. No need to get in a flap. The M.O., who was an in-
veterate smoker, quietly pulled out a gauloise from a packet and
litit calmly. A last squall, more violent than the others, tore the
mist apart. Then, as if by magic, the wind dropped and sud-
denly a hundred yards ahead of us Ang Tharkay and Pemba
Norbu could be seen, as they yelled to us for all they were worth:
“‘Sahibs! sahibs! Camp, here!”

We hurried up to join them. The Sherpas dropped their
loads with a sigh of relief and took off their crampons. While
Pemba Norbu brewed up tea, the other Sherpas set to work.
The first thing was to make two large platforms for the tents,
and with shovels and ice-axes they sent the snow flying. The
sahibs made a pretence of helping the Sherpas—just for form’s
sake, and to keep up their self-respect. In fact, we were very
tired; the nervous strain, the effort of climbing, the height, all
these caused a reaction that left us pretty shaky. We were a bit
dizzy, and our stomachs were crying out for something to eat.
Actually we’d had practically nothing since about seven o’clock
in the morning.

By 4 p.m. the two tents were pitched: Camp II was estab-
lished. Victory! The altimeter registered about 19,300 feet.

The mist had not completely cleared, and we could not tell
exactly where we were. On the right the camp backed on toa
big rounded snow slope, streaked with black rocks: this was the
summit of the Tower. On our left the ice-fall cascaded down,
and we could scarcely even distinguish the enormous seracs.
Farther on, straight ahead of us, we could only guess at the mys-
terious plateau beyond.

There was no time to be lost. We’d already arranged that
Jean would go down again as well as the Sherpas, except for
Ang Tharkay and Pemba Norbu, who would stay with us. So
after a quick bite, they all set off, wishing us good luck as they
went. Our hopes of establishing Camp III next day depended
more on the weather than on ourselves—and what a capricious
element it was! Barely two hours ago we had been shivering,
now the sun was beating down. Outside the tents it was like an
inferno, but inside it was even worse, for there was not a breath
of air. Michel and I kept opening our mouths like fish out of

100

The Apparition

water. It was as bad as it had been on the first of August on the
Col of Good Hope.

The two tents were adjacent, with the openings facing each
other. Putting our heads out in an attempt to get some air, we
came face to face with Ang Tharkay.

*““Hot, very hot, sahib.”’

“Too hot, it’s a bad sign.”

“No, sahib. Fine weather for the summit.”’

Ang Tharkay seemed to be an optimist all right! Not very
long before he hadn’t been able to see five yards ahead of him,
and his glasses had been plastered with snow. He had forgotten
all this, and was smiling once more. He went on, pointing up
with his finger:

‘To-morrow Camp III, sahib. And the day after, the sum-
mit. Yes, the summit!”

He was astounded when I answered wryly:

“No, I don’t think so. Perhaps Camp III to-morrow. But
afterwards we shall all have to go back to Base Camp because of
the bad weather.”

Ang Tharkay couldn’t make this out. It was obvious that he
was wondering whether I was joking. Michel added:

“Yes, the Bara Sahib is right.”

Our Sirdar smiled and politely refrained from saying any-
thing—perhaps he imagined that the height and the heat had
affected the sahibs’ brains. But there was nothing wrong with
our brains—it was only that I didn’t trust the weather, nor did
Michel. These sudden changes didn’t augur any good. More-
over, I was convinced that we were not yet sufficiently acclima-
tised, and still lacked this essential factor for success. To-day’s
experience proved this. We had all arrived up very tired, and in
such conditions an attack on the summit might be premature.
All the same, whatever happened, the second part of our pro-
gramme—establishing Camp II]—Aad to be completed the fol-
lowing day. A clear, luminous evening enabled us to sketch out
our future route.

On August 7, from the summit of the Tower, Pierre and
Claude had been able to get some idea of the lay-out. They told
us that there were two possible courses. One was to make
straight for the west ridge, but to do this one would have to

IOI

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

cross the head of the ice-fall and force a way through the seracs,
which might prove impassable. The other route, which seemed
preferable, skirted the ice-fall on the right and then came back
to a little col to the east. Sticking our heads out of the tents, we
surveyed the scene of operations. The ground sloped up gradu-
ally for 1,500 feet or so to the head of the ice-fall. In the back-
ground the west ridge ran up to the summit. On the right we
could see part of the great face of Nun, three-quarters screened
by a huge snow dome. We should have to make a flanking
traverse across the face in order to reach an area of couloirs,
hummocks, and seracs. There we should have to climb up
directly to the little col of which Claude and Pierre had spoken.
The route would undoubtedly be complicated, and we should
have to wind about, according to the lie of the ground. What
lay after we could not tell.

At six-thirty the sun slowly sank behind the Bat Kol glacier,
and the shadow of night crept up the west ridge of Nun. At
six-forty-five the last rays lit up the summit cone of snow and ice
and set fire to the red rocks ringing the top. Then suddenly
darkness struck and this Himalayan monarch, too, was swallowed
up by night.

* * * * *

On August 11 at 6.a.m. the alarm on my wrist-watch awoke us
from the heavy slumbers induced by sleeping-pills, which we
had taken the night before when we found we were too tired to
sleep. Now we felt rather cheap, our tongues were furry, our
heads heavy, and our pulses too rapid. Mind and limb were
lethargic. The height was the cause of all these troubles, and it
was proof again that we were still not properly acclimatised.

Regretfully I extricated myself from the soft warmth of my
sleeping-bag and looked outside. An icy blast blew into the
tent. The weather was magnificent—at least for the time being,
for to the south the sky was streaked with long red monsoon
trailers. Not avery good sign. All the same, we ought to set out.
We could always turn back later.

‘““Pemba!”’

“Yes, sahib.”

“Tea and porridge, please.”

102

The Apparition

“All right, sahib”—and the stove started to sing. While we
waited for breakfast, we got ready to leave, but to do so required
a tremendous effort of will. Inside the tent everything was in a
mess. Boots were stuffed at the bottom of our sleeping-bags to
prevent the leather stiffening in the night frost—an old dodge
of Himalayan climbers. Gaiters were in one corner, frozen and
shrunk, anoraks in another. Cameras, films, cine-camera, re-
fills were all over the place, but carefully wrapped in plastic
bags. To find one’s own belongings one just had to fish around.
And to move about inside a small high-altitude tent, with the
roof sagging on to one’s head, is quite a hard gymnastic
feat.

We dressed warmly: a long-sleeved woolly, then a woollen
shirt, a thin pullover, plus a thicker, loosely-woven sweater. All
these thicknesses form layers of air which give protection
against the cold. Then pants, and trousers of that closely woven
material, drap de Bonneval, and over the whole lot we put an
outer layer—trousers and anorak—of nylon, which kept out
wind and snow. On our hands we had first a pair of silk gloves,
then a pair of angora wool, and finally waterproof nylon mit-
tens. For our feet, the same plan: three pairs of woollen socks,
one thin, the other two thicker. Our boots were very roomy, and
allowed the free movement of all the toes. It is all-important
that the feet should not be constricted, or the circulation would
be stopped altogether. The possibility of frost-bite was always
in our minds. Canvas gaiters, laced behind, completely covered
our boots and kept the snow from coming in contact with the
leather.

Our heads were protected by thick Balaclavas over which we
fixed our goggles (we always had a spare pair), and faces were
smeared with white sun cream, which made us look like clowns.
We always had to put on our crampons outside the tents, for
fear of tearing the ground sheets. The double walls of these
isothermic tents make an air-cushion which is another protec-
tion against the cold. Unfortunately the difference between the
outside and inside temperatures caused condensation, and the
resulting drip on to our sleeping-bags was extremely unpleasant.

The tent-flap opened and Pemba handed in tea and two
plates of porridge. Tilman says that to swallow porridge at 20,000

103

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

feet shows a positive triumph of mind over matter. One must
persuade oneself that this food has immense nutritive value—
which, in fact, is true—and that a beefsteak and fried potatoes
wouldn’t compare with it—except for the taste! However true
this may be, there’s no doubt that it makes you feel very sick
when you swallow the stuff, and you anxiously wonder whether
your stomach will not take it all in bad part. The more so as
the position you adopt for eating isn’t the best imaginable:
seated, and doubled up to avoid touching the roof of the tent
with your head. In order to rest a bit you lie back a moment,
and your stomach, no longer constricted, begins to take a
brighter view of things. But meanwhile the porridge has
treacherously taken advantage of the pause to get cold, and the
situation is pretty desperate, for it then takes twice as much
courage to absorb the rest. No doubt we shall be told, and
rightly, that if we put up with all this it is because we have
chosen to do so.

By seven-fifteen Operation Porridge was accomplished, and
we came out of the tent. Heavens, it was cold! Our fingers were
so numb and clumsy that fixing on our crampons and doing up
the straps took a good ten minutes. What a horror these early
starts are!

We put on our rucksacks containing spare gloves and socks,
cameras, cine-cameras and spools, tinned food, climbing equip-
ment, and first-aid kit. We also took some small marker flags
with which to indicate the route—they would be invaluable in
the event of mist. Pemba Norbu and Ang Tharkay were far
more heavily loaded than we were. They carried a tent, food,
and equipment, as well as a cylinder of oxygen for Camp III.
Going by previous experience, I had decided to bring five cylin-
ders of 150 litres each, or about one and a half hours’ supply.
There was to be one cylinder at each camp, to be used only in
case of collapse or injury.

At seven-thirty we set out. We looked up at Nun: the moun-
tain was not yet in the sun, and its sombre mass loomed up dis-
turbingly. I went ahead to make tracks, followed by Michel:
Ang Tharkay was roped to Pemba Norbu. From the very first
steps, I found it hard going, for the freshly fallen snow had not
had time to consolidate, and I broke through the thin crust and

104

The Apparition

sank in up to my calves. At each step I had to make an effort to
withdraw my foot.

Nevertheless, we progressed at a good pace, for barely an
hour after leaving we had completed the traverse of the large
dome. We were quite close to the ice-fall, at the foot of a spur
which marked the beginning of the area of gullies and seracs
over which we should have to make our way to the col. We
halted a minute. The amazing and unforgettable sight that met
our eyes brought a cry of admiration to our lips. Far to the
north rose Nanga Parbat and the giants of the Karakoram. On
the left, Nanga Parbat (26,642 feet), with its two great domes,
looked like a large white cat, asleep; but make no mistake—it
wakes to kill. The ‘‘Naked Mountain’ (Nanga Parbat derives
from the Sanskrit, Nagna Parvata) has claimed the lives of four-
teen climbers and seventeen porters. In 1953 an Austrian, Her-
man Buhl, by a feat unequalled in the annals of Himalayan
climbing, conquered this much-coveted summit alone. Thus,
after seven attempts, the most murderous mountain in the world,
on which so many parties had come to grief, fell without offering
any resistance. To the right of Nanga Parbat, the pyramid of
Kg pierced the sky. With its 28,250 feet it is the next highest
peak in the world to Everest. This amazing cathedral of rock,
snow, and ice possesses a barbaric name which has somehow
prevailed over all others. The term “K2”’ is only an indication
given by the Survey of India, signifying ““Karakoram: summit
listed as No. 2”. (It is quite by accident that this number hap-
pens to coincide with the position of the mountain in the list
of eight-thousanders.). What was, in the beginning, nothing
more than a topographical indication, has finally become a
geographical name, which has even been integrated into the
Tibetan language. But the Baltis—K2 is in Baltistan—also
sometimes call it Chogori (Great Mountain).

_ This year the Americans were attempting it, for the third
time, under the leadership of Houston, who was responsible for
the brilliant attempt of 1938. Among the members of the ex-
pedition was my friend George I. Bell, who the year before had
been in Peru with Claude Kogan, Jean Guillemin, and myself.
My thoughts went out to him and his party: were they about to
plant their ice-axes on the second highest summit of the world?

105

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

Or were they, on the contrary, fighting against the unleashed
fury of the elements in an attempt to escape their fate? }

From here K2 resembled the Matterhorn. But what a Mat-
terhorn! A Matterhorn set by the Creator on a gigantic plinth.
On its right rose three other giants: Hidden Peak (26,470),
which was attempted in 1936 by a French expedition led by
Henry de Ségogne, Broad Peak (26,400), and Gasherbrum II
(26,360), all three still awaiting their conquerors. Winding in
between these giants of the earth was the vast Baltoro glacier,
twisting and turning through a galaxy of peaks over 23,000 feet
high.

* * * * *

“You're a fool... you’d have done better to stick to your
place. Of course making tracks is exhausting, but at least you
are able to go your own pace—Now, you're breathless... .”

This was my other self giving me a lecture, and with good
reason. I was furious with myself, and with the mountain which
was the cause of all this misery, and with Ang Tharkay for going
too fast. That diabolical creature was forging ahead at such a
pace that Michel and I had to go all out to keep up with him.
We were puffing like grampuses. I found myself counting
steps, with the idea of allowing ourselves a bonus from time to
time in the shape of a few seconds’ rest. Ang Tharkay saw
through the game, guessed that we were feeling the strain,
slowed up, and smiled. We heaved a sigh of relief. That was a
bit better! We began to live again, and our spirits rose. It is
extraordinary how morale can oscillate in the Himalaya, chang-

1 It was in fact during these very days—August 10 and 11—that a tragic
drama was being played out on K2. A reconnaissance party reached a
height of just over 27,000 feet—only 1,250 from the summit—to choose a
site for the future Camp IX. When they returned to Camp VIII at 25,600
feet, the whole party was blockaded for eight days by storm. The expedition
was obliged to give up the attempt, and one of the climbers, Arthur Gilkey,
fell seriously ill. On the way down to Camp VII the expedition narrowly
escaped disaster through a slip. Gilkey, on an improvised stretcher, was left
firmly anchored to a snow slope for a short time while the tents were being
put up at Camp VII. He was never seen again. When his friends returned
they found he had been swept away by an avalanche. The retreat continued
on the 11th, and on this day George Bell had two toes frost-bitten.

(K2 was subsequently climbed in 1954 by an Italian party under the
leadership of Professor Desio.— Translators’ Note.)

106

The Apparition

ing suddenly from optimism to despair or vice versa. If a big
effort is needed, the world looks black. But as soon as the body
is functioning well, then life begins to look rosy again. For the
moment I felt all right. I was full of admiration for Ang Thar-
kay’s route finding; he took every advantage of the ground and,
by natural flair and long practice, picked out the best line, first
going up a wide couloir, then zig-zagging between seracs and
snow hummocks.

On the way up I took off one of my outer mittens for a few
seconds in order to find my altimeter, which I had slipped in the
pocket of my anorak: about 19,700 feet. Just about the critical
limit, above which one really begins to feel the height. For the
Sherpas it was nothing out of the way—Pemba Norbu was fresh
from Everest and Ang Tharkay from Dhaulagiri. For Michel
it was a record. I know how very wearing this introduction to
high altitude can be, but Michel wouldn’t admit it; he forced
himself to answer with a smile when I asked him, rather meanly,
if he was all right. As for myself, to say that I felt quite comfort-
able would have been far from the truth, but last year’s experi-
ence in the Andes stood me in good stead. It is a very curious
phenomenon that once one has gone high, one feels the benefit,
even a long time afterwards.

Ang Tharkay stopped to change places with Pemba, and I
took advantage of the halt to look at the sky. My God, what a
change, and in less than an hour! The Zaskar peaks, which early
in the morning had been just lightly touched by long black trail-
ers, were now submerged beneath a mass of cloud, and these
clouds were rising up to assail Nun Kun. To the north the
horizon had closed in: Nanga Parbat and the eight-thousanders
of the Korakoram had disappeared, swallowed up by the damn-
able monsoon which brought a trail of storms in its wake. Of
course, it doesn’t affect this part of the Himalaya as much as
others; but, all the same, we did come in for some part of the
disturbances. And we were not the only ones: the Americans on
Ke must have been getting their share.

In an hour’s time we should be completely in mist. I made a
rapid calculation. We were at 19,850 feet; so in two hours we
had climbed only 650 feet. Now there ought to be at least fifteen
or sixteen hundred feet difference in height between Camps II

107

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

and III. This meant that if we wished to put Camp III at a
respectable height we should need roughly another three hours.
It would not be possible, for the bad weather was rapidly gain-
ing on us; we were the losers on this lap of our struggle with the
mountain. But there was no reason to give up immediately;
with the flags to mark the route we should always be able to find
the way back to Camp II. The attempt would at least enable
us to establish an intermediate camp where we could dump food
and equipment.

The mist caught up with us just as we reached the little col
which, the evening before, we had picked out as our first objec-
tive. Then it had seemed very near at hand. Once again we
had badly misjudged the distance; we were still seeing things
onan Alpine scale. We had told ourselves that when we reached
the col we should see. Well, we could see very little, and no
wonder.

The mist was not very thick, so that we could push on a bit
until conditions should become too bad. Ang Tharkay and
Pemba Norbu turned round questioningly, and we signed to
them to continue. The two Sherpas carried on by guess-work,
sniffing their way, and slanted up to the left. We had decided
the night before that we should have to make over in this direc-
tion to find a site for Camp III.

The ground sloped gently, in fact it was slightly concave. We
might have been in one of those combes where the wind never
penetrates to blow away the powder snow. There was not even
the vestige of a crust. We sank in up to our knees, and had to
make tremendous efforts for an almost imperceptible gain.

We were advancing blindly, for the mist had gradually thick-
ened, until everything had merged into one plane and all per-
spective had vanished. It was time to put an end to this game,
or we would soon be turning round in circles on our own tracks.
This has been known to happen—mountaineers going round
and round like the horses on a roundabout. And what is more
serious is that one may fall plop into a crevasse, without any
warning—a risk that is really not worth running.

I looked at my altimeter: it read 20,200 feet, nearly 1,000 feet
above Camp II. It was certainly not high enough, but to carry
on in such conditions would have been idiotic.

108

The Apparition

A decision had to be made. I called to Ang Tharkay:

*‘Acho La,1 we must give it up.”

There was a moment’s hesitation. Then, almost regretfully,
as though he was being torn away, Ang Tharkay let out an “All
right, Sahib,’ which hadn’t much conviction in it.

When I came up with him, I pointed out what I thought
would be an ideal site for an intermediate camp. A great wall of
ice loomed out of the mist. With its back to this wall the tent
would be well protected.

Ang Tharkay was not at all convinced; he protested, though
very pleasantly. He thought the spot was not a good one, that
farther on there would be a better, and that the weather might
quite well improve. What an optimist! He was so insistent that
I gave way. Very well—we’d go on a few hundred yards, but
we would leave our sacks. In this way we should not be tempted
to go far, and if we did fall into a hole we should be less encum-
bered. There was something to be said for our Sirdar’s idea. If
the wall of mist should happen to open, we’d then be able to see
the route ahead and to fix our position exactly in relation to the
summit.

So we started off again—after a fashion. We advanced twenty
yards, then halted; then another twenty yards, and another halt.
A ten-yard lap, and again we stopped. Our two Sherpas had
disappeared behind a hummock. This intrigued us, and we
carried on to join them. Michel and I began to laugh heartily,
for it was indeed a comic sight that met our eyes. There was no
longer any need to preach the advisability of stopping. Visibly
disheartened, Ang Tharkay and Pemba had sunk down on their
backsides, motionless, their axes planted between their legs,
hands crossed on the blades, heads bent.

But our laughter was cut short: the Sherpas were, quite
simply, murmuring prayers to Buddha. Ang Tharkay was re-
citing, and Pemba chimed in with a few words at regular inter-
vals in Acho La’s long chant. This strange incantation in mono-
tone at twenty-thousand feet, filled the silence with a moving
and doleful music. It was, no doubt, a fervent prayer that the
sky should clear. Profoundly touched, we listened silent and

_} Acho La means respected elder brother. It was the nickname deferentially
given by the Sherpas to Ang Tharkay, which we often used.

109

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

motionless, not even aware of the biting cold. Ten minutes went
by. And then by an extraordinary coincidence, the veil parted.
We found that we were on a large, gently sloping plateau.
Ahead, straight in front of us, the foot of the great face was clear.
And then the clearing began to extend rapidly up the slopes. A
few moments later the summit of Nun was revealed—and a
diabolical apparition it was. Three thousand feet in one majes-
tic sweep! An immense white triangle edged by interminable
ridges to which clung ghostly shreds of mist, and with the dream-
like cone of ice and snow outlined against a pale sky.

We were stunned by this apparition, and our first feeling was
of profound discouragement. We realised that ahead of us lay a
problem of an entirely different order, and that there was an-
other mountain to climb. All the rest—the climbing of the
Tower, establishing Camp II]—were but the simple tasks of the
approach. We had thought that the hardest part was over and
that we were going to gather in our Nun like a fine ripe plum.
What naiveté! It was only now that the true stature of our
adversary was disclosed. Our disillusionment turned to anger.
Oh, the bastard!

* * * * *

There was no question of establishing a camp on this windy
spot. In spite of this speedy answer to prayer, Ang Tharkay and
Pemba Norbu kept their feet firmly on the ground. After
quickly thanking Buddha, they returned to the ice-wall where
we had left our sacks. It was the two sahibs who were bewitched
by the apparition, and silently endeavoured to fathom the mys-
tery of the summit. But the clouds returned as rapidly as they
had cleared, and once more Nun was swathed in its cloak of
mist. The curtain fell. Was this the end of the last act but one?

110

CHAPTER VII
INTERLUDE

IN the pallid light at 20,200 feet stood a small yellow tent—one
of the Annapurna tents which the year before had also braved
the storms of the Cordillera Blanca. Here it was, back in the
Himalaya, very small and frail under the ice-wall. This was all
our provisional Camp III. Equipment and provisions were
quickly pushed into the tent, then Ang Tharkay pulled down the
zip-fastener and carefully did up the press studs of the fly-sheet
to stop the wind and snow getting inside.

We seized our ice-axes and departed rapidly. We were in a
hurry to escape from such a silent and inhospitable region as
this icy waste, and to return to Camp II, where the relief party
would be waiting.

Returning along our upward tracks, we found, one by one,
our little orange flags, like those that mark the course of a ski-
race. During the descent, which was very quick—we had been
absolutely frozen during our halt—I brooded over some dis-
turbing questions, and I was sure that Michel was doing the
same. I could clearly see, in my mind’s eye, that apparition of
Nun, that immense white triangle. How were we to tackle it?
On the right? Straight up the face? By the left-hand ridge?

The west ridge was very tempting, even though to reach it
we should have to cross the ice-fall—a dangerous business on
account of the enormous tottering seracs. This would certainly
be the most direct route. It would involve no detour, for the
ridge began roughly at a height of 1,000 feet above Camp II.
And it seemed so close! No doubt it would only be a matter of
a couple of hours to reach the foot of it. Once we had gained the
ridge it ought, though steep, to be comparatively easy to climb;
it was mixed snow and rock, straightforward and without ap-
parent danger. Possibly it was too steep for a camp: and even
if we could establish one, our tents, standing on a bare crest,

without shelter and exposed to every squall, would be highly
vulnerable.

ITI

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

Should we, then, be forced back on the first course, on which
in fact we had already embarked? In this case Camp III would
have to be established very high up, or else we might have to
envisage a Camp IV. A sine qud non for D day was that the dis-
tance between the last camp and the summit should be such
that the assault party, or parties, should be able to reach the top
and return before nightfall. Except in case of necessity (an
accident for instance), a bivouac was not to be thought of. The
consequences would be too serious.

Our provisional Camp III was certainly not high enough: in
under an hour and a half we were already back at Camp II,
where we were welcomed by Claude, Pierre, Nalni, our M.O.,
and four Sherpas. Once again the whole expedition was to-
gether. Pa Norbu, Kami, Gyaldzen, and Ang Phuter had
brought. up heavy loads of equipment and food, the supply
teams were working perfectly between Camp I and Camp II
via the Tower, and our lines of communication were well
organised.

All of us except Nalni had completely lost our voices. We
were accustomed to see Jean in this condition, but it had taken
Pierre and Claude by surprise. Apparently it was a result of
climbing the Tower. They complained that they had caught
cold and had taken vigorous steps to cure themselves at Base
Camp. I intercepted a mischievous look between them, and
realised in a flash that for their hot grogs these two must have
got hold of the whisky, the precious whisky which I was keeping
to toast the fall of Nun. As soon as I got back I rushed to hide
the second bottle carefully. One couldn’t be too careful with
this rascal of a padre. However, it is an excellent thing for mem-
bers of an expedition to lose their voices. Tilman holds that
there is nothing like it for improving the general harmony.

The others commented on my worried look, and as we took
off our crampons we began to explain the situation. We put the
new problems before them and the possible solutions. Owing to
the muted condition of the party we were able to complete our
report without serious interruption. (How right Tilman was!)

We rapidly agreed on a plan of action. Claude, Pierre, Jean,
and two Sherpas (Nalni was still not fit, and preferred to return
with us) would make a reconnaissance of the west ridge. If this

112

Interlude

proved satisfactory, we would change our route; if not we would
follow the line already begun and push Camp III up to between
21,000 and 21,500 feet. After this all of us, without exception,
would return to Base Camp to recuperate before the final
assault. By this time we should be completely acclimatised—our
present condition left a good deal to be desired (though of course
here Pierre had a great advantage over the rest of us); both in
body and morale we should be on the top of our form. Finally,
everything would be in position for the attack, the camps firmly
established and provided with all we needed. We should then
be able to proceed confidently to the final assault. In conclusion,
I said to Pierre:

*‘Nono, you are in charge. Good luck. Your job is supremely
important. We count on all three of you. Atcha?”

“Atcha! But...”

“What?”

“T would have liked to have Ang Tharkay and Pemba Norbu
with me.”

“I’m quite agreeable, but I doubt whether they will go up
again now. They’ve done a tremendous job carrying enormous
loads. Just look at them, they’re played out.”

Our two Sherpas were sitting on their sacks, elbows on knees,
holding their heads in their hands. Pierre made the suggestion
to Ang Tharkay, but he shook his head, accompanying the
eae as usual with a broad smile which lit up his round

ace.

“No, Kusho.”’ !

“Right. Never mind. We’ll say no more about it. I’ll take
Gyaldzen and Ang Phuter.”’

“Just as you like, Pierre. In that case Kami and Pa Norbu
will return with us to Camp I, where they will spend the night;
to-morrow they will bring up loads. The rest of us will be in
clover at Base Camp, with good food and whisky—if you’ve left
us any!”

We drank a last cup of tea, adjusted our crampons on our
boots, put on our rucksacks, shook hands with our friends, and
then plunged off at express speed down the Tower. Michel and
I whistled and sang, as happy as schoolboys after the exams,

1 Sherpa for Your Excellency.

H 11g

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

who see the freedom of the summer holidays stretching before
them. But there would still be another test!

We reached Camp I by mid-afternoon, just as the snow
started. We halted a while to eat and to prepare the contents
of the loads which Kami and Pa Norbu would take up to Camp
II next day. Ang Tharkay, who for once had lost his smile, sat
sadly on a boulder watching the falling snowflakes; he looked
like a defeated Chinese general. I reminded him that our pre-
diction of the previous evening had proved correct.

“You're right, it’s bad weather,”’ he admitted.

Turning towards Michel, I said:

““We were right to stop where we did this morning. It must
be snowing heavily up there now.”

Ang Tharkay gave final instructions to Kami and Pa Norbu,
and then we set off. We went down without hurrying, for now
we had all the time in the world. Down below, on the glacier
of the First of August we could walk side by side. We chatted
cheerfully, drawing up the exact menu for dinner: chicken soup,
sauer-kraut, salad with onions and lemon—a great speciality of
our Sirdar—fruit in syrup, chocolate cream. As I have already
remarked, Himalayan climbers are confirmed materialists.

We sauntered along lazily, the better to enjoy our return to
earth. The air was soft. We were now down to 16,000 feet, and
it was no longer snowing. We reached the moraine which hid
our Base Camp, and 500 yards lower the sun shone fitfully
through the clouds. All at once the colours came to life—brown,
sienna, ochre, grey-green, blue-black. These delicate tone-
symphonies were a delight to eyes accustomed only to white,
more white, and nothing but white. We stopped here and there
to pick flowers nestling behind the rocks. How good it was to
chew stalks and grass and smell the earth again!

By the end of the afternoon’s wanderings we were back at
Base Camp, at 15,500 feet. A few hours before we had been
at over 20,000 feet; a descent of more than 4,500 feet in the day,
not counting the trip up in the morning!

A pair of choucas circled above us uttering raucous croaks.
Our presence seemed to surprise them; no doubt they regarded
us as intruders. We quickly took off our climbing-things to go
and wash in the nearby stream, which sang merrily over the

114

Interlude

stones. We summoned up courage to look at ourselves in a glass.
Heavens, what a change! It was no longer ourselves at all.
Our bearded faces were lined with effort, our features were hol-
low; The skin on our noses, burned by the sun, peeled off in
strips; our eyes were still inflamed. We looked ten years older.
I had lost more of my hair in the fray, and there was very little
left now. My mother had presented me with a case containing
all sorts of lotions I hardly ever used—it was just as well she
couldn’t see me now!

Ang Tharkay had prepared a royal dinner, with all the dishes
of our choice plus an unexpected addition: curried rice, which
he does to perfection. After our meal we took a few drops of
whisky; the remains ef the bottle which those villains had taken
to cure their pretended colds. But now the other bottle was
safely hidden away; if I died I would take the secret with me to
the grave. To crown all we had cigarettes in plenty. Though I
preferred a pipe, I didn’t take it high up, for it didn’t draw well
above 16,000 feet, and had to be constantly relit. I had quite
enough to do already looking after myself.

Nalni and Michel were as happy as sand-boys. The former
had recovered his regiment of tooth-brushes, and the latter had
smartened himself up as if all the belles of the district were com-
ing to admire him. I was content just to idle and to give up
worrying for a time. All this was quite enough to make us see
everything in a rosy light, and Michel and I began to hum the
well-known song La Vie en Rose. Imagination ran riot. Nothing
could hold us back: Camp III was established, Nun was con-
quered, the triumphal archways were put up along our return
journey. It was time for us to take ourselves off to bed.

We woke fourteen hours later. Ang Tharkay brought us our
porridge and tea in bed.

“Big Brother,” I said, “you are a mother to us.”

He burst out laughing. These Sherpas are really extraordi-
nary: they read our thoughts. Barely five minutes before Michel
and I had said to one another, “If only we could have breakfast
in bed!” René Dittert has written of the Sherpas with great
truth: “I don’t think anyone could possibly be more obliging
and less servile.”’

About eleven o’clock we put our noses outside. Our first look

115

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

was at the sky—it was not too good. A pale sun and threaten-
ing clouds, and it was too warm. All this meant snow. What
would the others be doing? We had not long to wait for the
answer. Around midday Pemba Norbu let out a yodel, on spot-
ting an almost invisible black speck above the moraine. Who
was it? The speck grew bigger, and soon we were able to recog-
nise the doctor by his clothes and his walk. Why was he return-
ing alone? Had there been an accident? We went up to meet
him. He reassured us at once: there had been no accident, but
everyone was coming down. It had been impossible to carry
out the assignment.

“Up there,” Jean told us, “we were right in the storm. Last
night the tents were lifted up by the squalls, and we thought we
should be blown away with them. It was ten o’clock before we
were able to go outside. We had arranged with Claude and
Pierre that they should try to reach the west ridge according to
plan, forcing a route through the seracs of the ice-fall. If all
went well I was to go up to the temporary Camp III with two
Sherpas to bring on the tent and its contents. After an hour
Claude and Pierre had gained about 300 feet in height and were
then obliged to turn back: the weather was too appalling.

“The situation did not improve—very much the contrary.
The wind blew stronger and it snowed hard. So we decided to
retreat, since by remaining we should diminish the stocks of food.
The others will be along this afternoon. It’s a rotten business,
all this,’ he concluded with a mournful shake of his head.

This time his habitual pessimism had reason strongly behind
it. The news was indeed very bad, for it meant that our whole
plan of attack had collapsed. A few hours later, just as Claude,
Pierre, and the Sherpas reached Base Camp, the sun pierced the
clouds as if in mockery.

“It’s sickening,”’ said Claude, turning to look towards Nun.

“We weren’t patient enough,” added Pierre.

We cheered them up by telling them that they had done quite
right to come down. If we were in a bad period, that was be-
cause we had to pay for the exceptional weather during the
approach march.

Conversation was brisk in the mess-tent as we drank mugs of
tea, and discussed the situation up and down. Some were for

116

Interlude

the west ridge, others for the original route with Camp III
higher up. ... But the west ridge route was shorter. ... No
doubt, but only if a way could be found through the seracs... .
Michel was at it hammer and tongs with Claude, who defended
herself with some asperity, for she does not like being contra-
dicted. She was positive:

“Tell go all right.”

“How could you possibly see, since you were in the clouds?”

“T tell you, I did see.”

A note of bitterness was coming into the discussion, and Pierre
turned to me:

‘What does the Bara Sahib think?”

‘Well, the Bara Sahib thinks that before beginning the assault
we must make sure of having a well-established Camp III.
Personally I am in favour of pushing Camp III up to between
21,000 and 21,500 feet. I am, therefore, in favour of pursuing
the route begun yesterday. At least we know this route, and it
seems sensible to go on with it. The west ridge is no doubt more
direct. But we should lose a lot of time reconnoitring, and this
at a moment when time will be very precious. And I must
emphasise again that we are not sure of getting through—those
seracs looked dangerous to me. Really, I think we'll have to
come back to the original plan.”

“I’m with you there,” said Pierre. ‘“‘And now,” he thun-
dered, ‘‘no more talk of Nun until further orders!”

Upon these words the meeting broke up. As we went to our
tents light flakes of snow were swirling in the mist which began
to cover the mountains. Bad weather was slowly setting in. How
many days should we have to wait about doing nothing?

* * * * *

Here are some pages from my diary:

August 13: Nothing special to-day, just like any other day,
doing nothing. Snow or rain. Mist on Nun. As we are short of
Calor gas, four Sherpas have been sent off to fetch wood. They
were delighted to go down the valley (perhaps they hoped to
meet girls looking after the cattle). Ang Tharkay and Pemba
Norbu have stayed with us. These two are quite inseparable.
We have strong suspicions that Ang Tharkay wishes to keep

117

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

Pemba for his eldest daughter (he has four to marry off). Our
view is that he would make a perfect son-in-law as well as an
excellent “‘housewife’’.

We’ve spent the day reading, but one gets quickly tired of it.
Michel has been rather bitter: “If you count up the days on
which we’ve done any real climbing, you realise that they are
very few indeed.” Tilman has often said: “If you really want to
climb, don’t go to the Himalaya!” The evening has been cold
and damp. Went to bed early at 7 p.m.

August 14: No change. No longer snowing this morning. But
banks of mist have rolled up one after the other to submerge the
mountains.

We're bored to tears. It is a frightful humiliation for climbers
to be condemned to inaction. It’s terribly demoralising. To kill
time we’ve played chess or read—Prévert (Paroles et Histozres),
Nehru (Autobiography and Glimpses of World History), Maraini
(Secret Tibet), Harrer (Seven Years in Tibet), the Fables of La
Fontaine, and India Before the Storm, by Tibor Mende. But we
soon get sick of reading, after two whole days of it, and after
lunch we-began playing cards—belote. The M.O. is a keen
bridge player and won’t stoop to such childishness. Claude and
Michel play together and Pierre’s my partner. Pierre’s new to
it, but it doesn’t take him long to learn: he’s just as fond of cards
as of whisky, which is saying quite a lot! He’s even a bit of a
cheat, and with a far-away look on his face he takes a squint at
his neighbour’s cards—not that I object, as I’m playing with
him. He’s a bit of a card himself, our padre! Now he makes
signs to me to play certain cards: and seeing what’s going on,
Claude and Michel begin cheating, too. So we’re all square.
The evening ends with a crushing victory for P. Vittoz and B.
Pierre, which the beaten pair won’t acknowledge to have been
won by fair means. Indeed, they refuse to continue under such
conditions! Meanwhile Nalni reads up and writes out his notes.
Jean sleeps like a top and snores fit to start an avalanche.

August 15: Better weather this morning, though it’s been snow-
ing all night. Neither rain nor snow, only banks of mist. After
breakfast the sun tries to come out, and part of Nun is visible.
The south face is terribly plastered. Our hopes are short-lived:
rain by midday and more snow in the evening.

118

Interlude

The two porters to be entrusted with telegrams for the nearest
post office (Kishtwar, 125 miles away) arrive with letters from
Europe and India, and Indian newspapers ordered by Nalni.
We hear all sorts of news at once: the end of the war in Korea,
Beria’s arrest, the general strike in France. All this leaves us
cold. What matters to us egotists is the conquest of Nun. And
we’re not getting any farther on with it. There’s a letter among
my mail from the girdawar of Yurod, confirming that in accord-
ance with my request, seventy porters will arrive on August 28
at Base Camp for the return journey. We write at length to our
parents and friends. I write a telegram for the France-Presse
agency in New Delhi, for the post runners are leaving to-morrow
morning.

In the afternoon the Sherpas return with an enormous cargo
of wood. Pierre asks Gyaldzen:

“What about the girls?”

““They made us very happy.”

A day of visitors. —Two nomads, who have heard there’s a
doctor in the neighbourhood, have marched for days to find us.
Jean grumbles, but does his stuff. The two patients go off with
their medicines: they feel half-cured already. And the doctor
resumes his slumbers.

As everyone wants to play belote we make up our differences
... and begin cheating again. And so it goes on until the next
bust-up. Another victory for the Nono-Bara Sahib team. We
nay a dinner in honour of Jayal as it’s the Indian National féte

ay.

August 16: Woken by the sound of hail: no improvement in the
weather. We scarcely wait to finish breakfast before hurrying
back to our sleeping-bags. What a rest-cure!

Now that we have all the Sherpas together it’s time to inter-
view them, with Pierre’s help. Some time ago I prepared a
questionnaire for the purpose. We're greatly interested by
these men, and very much want to know more about them than
what we can glean through everyday conversation.

* * * * *

“First of all,” began Pierre, “I would like to tell you what is
known of the Sherpas and their tongue.”

11g

WEST RIDGE

FIRST AVALANCHE —~~~- SUMMIT 23,410 Ft

CAMP I 19.200 ft ——-—-———— SECOND AVALANCHE

ds THE ICE FALL ————--——
% CAMP IIE 2,000 t
44 ¢ AMP I 17,700ft ——~
& 40 v CAMP I 17700Ft
thon, bp “Gp TEMPORARY CAMP Ii 20,2008

“\

\ COL OF GOOD HOPE ——
GANRI GLACIER —~—

“aN 74

NANGA PARBAT

~~ aenars nen ia aad

tno ==, GLACIER

oman OF.

BASE. CAMP
15, as .
:

pANORAM OF NUN

Nun is the second highest peak in Kashmir and is the Of the fourteen 8,000 m. (26,247 ft.) peaks, seven
seventeenth in height on the list of Himalayan 7,000 m. have now been climbed: in order of height:—Everest,
(22,966 ft.) peaks that have’ been climbed. cae Makalu, Cho Oyu, Nanga Parbat,

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

Michel, Claude, and Jean put down their books. When-
ever Pierre started on a topic like this we all listened with
respect.

“The origins of the Sherpas are still obscure, and it is difficult
to get from them an accurate picture of their customs and habits.
However, it is clear that this little ethnic group is part of the
great Tibetan family; Sherpas’ names, religion, and physique
are proof of this and I was convinced of it before I met them.
But I couldn’t then make out whether they had adopted the
tongue of their Nepalese neighbours, or retained the old and
famous Tibetan language which is spoken over a vast area to
the north of the Himalaya, the whole length of the range. This
question was very much in my mind when, with curiosity mixed
with respect, I first shook hands with Ang T’arke—incidentally
this is how his name should be spelt.1 So as an experiment I
began talking in Tibetan; but I stopped after the first few words,
for the poor chap looked at me with such startled eyes and the
air of one who says: ‘But, sir, I don’t talk French!’ Then I
thought of speaking slowly, word by word, which lessened the
difference between the dialect to which I was accustomed and
the one which perhaps he knew. Pointing to various objects in
turn, I said ‘wood’, ‘foot’. A large smile wreathed his round
face. The point was made.

“In the oases and deserts of the Central Asian plateaux there
are almost as many ways of speaking modern Tibetan as there
are hamlets and encampments. It is, nevertheless, possible
roughly to classify this changing and rarely written language by
taking as a base the three principal districts of Tibet. In this
way one can distinguish the central dialects of which the proto-
type is that of Lhasa; the western dialects proper to the regions
round Ladak, and the eastern dialects, which are spoken in the
relatively low-lying provinces of the Tibetan—Chinese frontier.

“‘At the present time only a few of the dialects of the first and
second groups are known at all well to Europeans. But the
eastern dialects do not appear to have been studied systematic-
ally at all, which is a great pity, for there is a tradition that the

1 I personally disobey this edict and continue to write Ang Tharkay, for
this is how he is known the world over, and it is how his name is written
on his visiting-card.

122

Interlude

Sherpas emigrated from an eastern province (Sherpa coming
from shar, which means east), and a thorough knowledge of the
eastern dialects might enable one to prove or disprove the truth
of this tradition. Further, by comparing the Sherpa language
and various of the eastern dialects, one might be able to establish
the region from which the Sherpas originally came.

“In the meantime I can only put forward the following con-
jectures. The Sherpa dialect belongs to the group of central
Tibetan dialects; though it differs markedly as regards pronun-
ciation and grammar from, for instance, the dialect of Lhasa.
Certain intonations and the use of certain words lead one to the
hypothesis that, in the distant past, the Sherpas spoke one of
the eastern dialects. They have been greatly influenced by
neighbouring languages so that the pure Tibetan words have
been replaced by equivalent words in Nepalese or Hindustani.”

“It is a curious language,” interrupted Michel. “When you
are talking with the Sherpas it sounds as if you’re using onoma-
topcela—you seem to be barking.”

“Yes, you’re right,” went on Pierre. “Their Tibetan dialect
possesses a tonal quality whose strangeness it is difficult, if not
impossible, to describe, and sounds which it is extremely awk-
ward to reproduce in our alphabet. Thus tokpo means friend;
lakpa, hand; ming, name; luk, sheep; lak, eagle; balu, bear; sang,
saucepan; tsong, onion; kangri, glacier; lungpa, valley; tse, sum-
mit; tangpo, cold; dang, yesterday; ngamo, to-morrow morning,
and so on.”

“But,”’ put in Michel, “‘all the same, one has to use conven-
tional symbols to write down these words.”’

“Yes, of course. Thus the vowels, which are generally very
short, e, u, 6, #, are pronounced ¢, 00, eu, u. Ris rolled and short;
ch, j, sh, zh correspond to the sounds which in French would be
written éch, dj, ch, and j respectively. But these conventions,
although very useful, are neither systematic nor sufficient; they
are not even recognised by all writers.”

* Ed * * *

The Sherpas’ tent was not far from our own. We put on our
boots, splashed through the slush of dirty snow and earth, and
were there at once. We poked our heads through the opening

123

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

of the tent. The Sherpas were sitting cross-legged round a mat
playing dice.

“Hullo. The Bara Sahib wishes to ask you some questions,”
announced Pierre. ‘Are you willing?”

“Certainly,” they replied, much intrigued.

We sat down.

“First of all,’ I said to Pierre, ‘I would like to know their
ages, their family relations, and the principal expeditions in
which they have taken part.”

They put up very willingly with this interrogation. We began
with Kami, the baby of the party. He was very conscientious
and capable of carrying really heavy loads; twenty-three years
old and unmarried. In 1951 he had been with Eric Shipton on
the reconnaissance of the south face of Everest. Before coming
with us he had climbed with the Swiss on Dhaulagiri (26,795
feet).

Pemba Norbu, our dear Pemba, was twenty-six. He had been
with Shipton in 1951 on Everest, and in 1952 on Cho Oyu
(26,904 feet). He had now come straight from Everest, where
he had gone as high as Camp IV (21,200 feet). He was personal
Sherpa to Sir John Hunt, who gave him this excellent chit: “A
most attractive character. Has shown unequalled endurance.
Went up and down the ice-fall several times carrying enormous
loads over the ladders.”

Pa Norbu, twenty-seven years old and unmarried. A very
gifted and promising Sherpa, who had often led a rope. In 1950
he accompanied Tilman first to Annapurna Himal, then to the
south face of Everest.1 In 1951 he was one of the Sherpas on the
third French Himalayan expedition, led by Roger Duplat from
Lyon (who disappeared with Gilbert Vignes on Nanda Devi).
The same year he took part in the reconnaissance of the south
face of Everest. In 1952 he was on Cho Oyu—it was a fine list.

Gyaldzen, twenty-seven, married with one daughter, cer-
tainly had a magnificent career before him. He is extremely
intelligent and is capable of taking initiative and of leadership.
In our opinion he is of the stuff of which Sirdars are made. He

1 Oscar Houston, the American, invited Tilman to join his expedition,
the other members of which were his son, Dr. Charles Houston, A. S. G.
Bakewell, and Mrs. Elizabeth Cowles.

124

Interlude

speaks English fairly well and has a strong sense of humour.
Pierre tells the story that one day as Gyaldzen watched him
rubbing Claude’s back—she was shivering with cold—he asked:
‘*Has the cheftaine got fleas?”

In 1949 he went to Pyramid Peak with the Swiss Sutter and
Dittert, then with Thomas to Panch Chuli. 1950 saw him on
Kailas Peak, and 1951 once more on Panch Chuli. In 1952 he
was with the Swiss on Everest up to about 21,500 feet. Before
coming with us to Nun Kun he had accompanied the Swiss
expedition to Dhaulagiri.

Ang Phuter, Ang Tharkay’s brother, is forty; married and the
father of four daughters. He is as strong as a lion and carries
the heaviest loads with a smile. He was on Everest in 1936,
1938, and 1951; on Cho Oyu in 1952, and this year on Dhaula-
girl.

And now we come to our Sirdar. He is the equal of Tensing,
and vice versa. Both are aces of their profession. Ang Tharkay
no longer needs any references, though on our return to Srinagar
he asked me for one. Perhaps it was just to please me. This is
what I wrote: “It is difficult to say anything more in praise of a
Sirdar with such an extraordinary record of expeditions, and
who has such a tremendous reputation. All the same, I would
like to say how greatly I appreciated his integrity, his con-
scientiousness, his spirit of initiative, and his remarkable gift for
organisation. Ang Tharkay loves mountains and is genuinely
overjoyed when the summit is reached. We all regarded him as
a true friend.”

His life history is worth telling. He is now forty-five years old,
married, and has four daughters. He is Tensing’s brother-in-
law: actually his wife is only a cousin by marriage of that famous
Sherpa; the daughter of one of her uncles (on her father’s side)
married the conqueror of Everest as her second husband; put it
another way, it’s the daughter of the brother of Ang Tharkay’s
father who married Tensing. Quite simple! But in this country
of polyandry one is never quite sure about the exact degree of
relationship.

In 1931, when he was twenty-three, Ang Tharkay began his
career with the Germans on Kanchenjunga, the third highest
mountain in the world (27,146 feet). Two years kater he was a

125

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

porter on Everest, one of the splendid band of Sherpas who
succeeded in establishing Camp VI at 27,400 feet in a blizzard.
This tremendous feat brought him to the notice of Eric Shipton,
who later wrote of Ang Tharkay: “His exceptional qualities
make him the best Sherpa I have ever known.” The following
year he accompanied Shipton on the reconnaissance of the
Nanda Devi massif, and in 1935 he was once again with Shipton
on the slopes of Everest. That same year he went with C. R.
Cooke to Kabru (24,076 feet), which was climbed for the first
time; 1936 saw him again on Everest with Shipton, who the
following year took him to the Shaksgam; in 1938 he was once
more with Shipton on Everest, and once more at Camp VI at
27,108 feet. In 1939 Shipton decided to organise a light-weight
expedition to explore some of the glaciers of the Karakoram,
and Ang Tharkay was invited to lead his nine Sherpas; the war
cut the expedition short.

In 1940 he met C. R. Cooke again and made the acquaint-
ance of the man who, thirteen years later, was to lead the suc-
cessful Everest expedition—John Hunt. Their objective was a
reconnaissance of Pandim, in Sikkim. From 1940 to 1943 events
forced him to desert the mountains for the plains, and he took a
job as cook to the Indian Army officer he had climbed with,
C. R. Cooke. In 1943 and 1944 he was employed by the Survey
of India and travelled in Nepal, Sikkim, Garhwal, and Kash-
mir.

At the end of hostilities, Himalayan climbing came into its own
again, and once more his services were in demand. Wilfrid
Noyce, who was subsequently to be a member of the 1953 ex-
pedition to Everest, engaged Ang Tharkay in 1945 for Pauhunri
(23,385 feet), of which they made the second ascent. The same
year Ang Tharkay accompanied Tilly to the summit of Cho-
miomo (22,402 feet). From 1947 to 1949 he took part in a
number of minor expeditions.

1950 was the year of Annapurna, where Maurice Herzog
made him Sirdar of his Sherpas. It was Ang Tharkay who
established the last camp—Camp V at 24,600 feet. He was very
happy to have taken part in the conquest of the first “eight-
thousander’’; it was a great feather in his cap to crown an
already extensive career.

126

Interlude

Upon his return to the valley he was greeted by the sad news
that a landslide had devastated Darjeeling and carried away
the little house which it had taken him years to save up for and
build. After three ghastly sleepless nights he arrived exhausted
at the scene of the disaster. .

“T could not believe my eyes. For a long while I was speech-
less, as I saw the awful mess of beams and earth, and masonry.
All my belongings were destroyed. When I looked away from
the ruins there were the five members of my family staring at me,
with questioning eyes. I was their only support, their only hope.
I realised that I must carry on and begin all over again.”

So, at an age when most people begin to think of retiring, Ang
Tharkay returned to the struggle against want and misfortune.
Once again he found his old friend Shipton in 1951, and with
him made the reconnaissance of the south face of Everest. In
1952 he went to Cho Oyu, again with Shipton. In 1953 it was
Dhaulagiri and Nun Kun.

Such is the man, and such is his roll of honours. I must admit
that before I met him I did not know he had done so much. If
I had, I should perhaps never have dared ask him to be the
Sirdar of our expedition.

We paused for a little after this long story to which the Sher-
pas had listened religiously. The way in which they looked at
Ang Tharkay while he talked was living proof of their admira-
tion and affection for this man, who was not only their Sirdar,
but also a religious authority. We had often, in the evenings,
heard Ang Tharkay reciting prayers in which they all joined,
and the silence of Base Camp would be broken by the strange,
rugged tones of their chants. But there were more questions to
be asked.

“Where were you born and what did your parents do?”

It was Ang Tharkay who replied. All six of them were natives
of the famous valley of Sola Khumbu, the country of the Sher-
pas. Some were born in Namche Bazar, others at Khunde.
Their parents were simple peasants who made a hard living
from the produce of their fields (potatoes, barley, oats) and from
their flocks of goats and sheep.

“Why did you leave the Sola Khumbu valley?”

“We could not makea living. So we emigrated to Darjeeling.”

127

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

*““Why did you choose Darjeeling?”

“Because there’s a good chance of finding work—as tailors,
butchers, or shoe-makers, for instance. One can also get work
on the tea-plantations.”

“Then why did you change to a dangerous job like a Sherpa’s,
when you might have stayed on quietly as butchers, tailors, or
shoe-makers?”’

This time Ang Tharkay was not the only one to reply. They
were unanimous:

“Because we like it.” Pemba added as well: ‘You see the
country, and you earn more money than any other way. You're
well fed and well clothed.”” And Gyaldzen wound up: ‘When
we return home after an expedition everyone admires us!”

Ang Tharkay then went on to explain to Pierre that there had
been some antagonism between themselves and the “Tibetans”,
the people who live on the southern frontier of Tibet. Before
the frontier was closed for the political reasons with which we
are all familiar, the British expeditions that attacked Everest
from the north recruited Sherpas not only from Darjeeling but
also on the way, in Tibet. A great rivalry developed between
them. “The real Sherpas are those from Sola Khumbu,” he
declared proudly.

*““How long do you carry on in this job?”

‘“‘We stop when we can’t climb mountains any more. We'll
be pretty old by then!”

‘And when you are old, as you call it, what will you do?”

Gyaldzen, who is a bit of a wag, said something, at which
Pierre burst out laughing, and so did all the Sherpas, who revel
in a joke. Mongolian gaiety is more than an empty phrase. I
asked Pierre the reason for this general hilarity.

Gyaldzen had replied: ‘We shall return to Sola Khumbu,
buy a field, take a wife, and watch her work.”’

“And your children? Would you like them to take up the
same job as yourselves?”

They all answered: “Yes.”

Then I came to various questions regarding their “corpora-
tion”. Actually they were not organised. ‘‘We are free men,
Ang Tharkay declared proudly. The Sherpas had not formed
a syndicate like the guides of Chamonix and Zermatt. They

128

Interlude

have no one chief, but they do recognise the authority of four
Sirdars: Gyalgen (I imagine this must be Gyalgen II, called
Mikchen, born in 1915, who was on Everest in 1936 and 1938,
in the Karakoram with Eric Shipton in 1939, on Nun Kun in
1946, Pyramid Peak in 1949, and on the expedition to the south
face of Everest with Houston and Tilman in 1950); Pasang Lama
(the Sherpa of K2 fame, who for a long time—until 1952—held
the altitude record for Sherpas with his 27,329 feet); Tensing,
and our Ang Tharkay. They have no system of social security.
“But,” said Ang Tharkay, “the Government allows us three
rupees a week in case of illness. In addition, if any one of us
dies we all club together to give the deceased an honourable
burial.”

There is, therefore, no formal organisation.t But our Sirdar
told us that the Sherpas are a very united body and do not
hesitate to lend each other money without interest on the basis
that one good turn deserves another. If they applied to money-
lenders the interest would be twenty-five per cent!

“How many active Sherpas are there?”

“About thirty-five.” :

On this point I think Ang Tharkay is mistaken and that there
are more, if one can go by the lists in the Himalayan Journal.
Here it will be as well to make a digression to give some informa-
tion about the Himalayan Club. This remarkable institution is
a private organisation just like the Alpine Club or the Groupe
de Haute Montagne. Its origin really goes back to rg21, the
year of the first Everest Expedition.?, On this occasion the high-
altitude porters were christened “Tigers”. Seventeen, who had
distinguished themselves during the expeditions of 1921, 1922,
and 1924, were later to receive a medal showing a tiger outlined

1 Tt is distressing to think that these men do not have the benefit, when
they have to retire from their profession, of a modest pension to add to their
savings which would keep them from destitution. In all fairness, the sahibs
should think of the future of the Sherpas. Medals, certificates, praise are not
enough to meet the case. Nations who have taken part in the conquest of
the Himalaya, and whose successes have been due in great measure to the
devotion and heroism of these men, might form an international fund, ad-
ministered by the Himalayan Club, for instance, which could devise an
appropriate pension scheme.

4 See the Journal de la Fondation Suisse pour Explorations Alpines, No. 1,
April 1953, Ed. Marcel Kurz.

I 129

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

against a snowy summit. These Tigers—only half of whom are
still alive—formed the nucleus of the Sherpas. Since then the
Tiger medal has continued to be presented to Sherpas who have
gone to a certain height: round about 25,000 feet.

The Himalayan Club was officially constituted in 1928. All
the Sherpas—and they then numbered over a hundred—
received a reference number and their names were listed on a
register. To-day, in principle, each Sherpa is given a reference
number, and he has a book in which are entered all the expedi-
tions in which he has taken part, the services which he has ren-
dered, and, usually, the remarks of the leaders of the expeditions.

The Himalayan Club gives great assistance to the leaders of
both large and small expeditions. It puts them in touch with
the Sirdar and with the Sherpas they require, when no arrange-
ment has been made direct. In either case the Himalayan Club
plays an important part, making the men pass a medical inspec-
tion, obtaining for them an advance of pay, and making the
employer sign an undertaking to pay an indemnity in the event
of an accident: frostbite, the loss of one or more limbs, or death.
This organisation has also drawn up regulations governing rates
of pay, advances, equipment, food, and so on. Finally, it pub-
lishes the Himalayan Journal, an authoritative publication which
gives detailed accounts of all expeditions as well as a multitude
of useful information.

This interview seemed to surprise our Sherpas, as well as
amuse them. And perhaps they may even have been flattered
by our curiosity. We now asked two questions about their reli-
gion and political life. First of all, how did they practise the
former in Darjeeling and when on expeditions?

They were all Buddhists. At Darjeeling there are no convents
or monasteries. But among the Sherpas there was a lama or
priest, who was indeed the Sirdar, Pasang Lama of whom we
have already spoken. And itinerant lamas go to Darjeeling
when there are religious ceremonies to be celebrated. And dur-
ing expeditions? Ang Tharkay answered us in metaphor: “We
live like chickens, we do not try to reach heaven.”

And now for politics: Had Ang Tharkay voted during the
1951 elections? The reply was: “Yes, there was something or
other like that—I don’t remember very well.”

130

Interlude

As they did not appear to be very interested, we changed the
subject. We put two questions to the unmarried men, Kami,
Pemba Norbu, and Pa Norbu. How did they spend the money
they earned? The reply was unanimous. They supported their
old parents: this is a law in Tibet. And they saved.

Did they intend to get married? Certainly: “We'll take wives
when we have enough money.” ‘And then will you marry
women from Sola Khumbu or from Darjeeling?”

There was general agreement on this subject: they would
marry women from Sola Khumbu. The Darjeeling ones were
no use at all: they hadn’t any fields to cultivate. But the women
of their native valley were first-class, for they worked in the
fields and looked after the livestock.

And now a question for all of them: what did they do during
the winter? Some remained in Darjeeling. But most of them
returned to the Sola Khumbu valley, fifteen days’ march from
Darjeeling. Their faces lit up when they spoke of their paradise:
“We're happy there and we get fat,” added Gyaldzen.

Changing the subject completely, I asked Pierre to interro-
gate Ang Tharkay about his recent trip to Paris. He told us
that it had been a great honour for him to be the guest of the
French; he would remember it all his life. Paris was vast; one
was lost in all those streets and avenues, and the traffic had
terrified him. The people were very pleasant, and he found the
food delicious. He was much astonished by the Eiffel Tower:
it must be very high. But the idea of climbing up to the top
never occurred to him.

“TI want to know,”’ I said to Pierre, ‘whether he associates
the Himalayan peaks with divinities as the old Sherpas used to
do.”

“No,” Ang Tharkay replied, “the present generation no
longer believes this.”

“And what does he think of the sahibs who climb moun-
tains?”

“T do not find it surprising that they want to do so,” he
declared, “‘since I want to do it myself. After I have been at
home a while, I want to be off again; I get restless and un-

happy.”
I jumped at the opportunity:

131

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

“What does happiness depend upon?”

Ang Tharkay thought for a moment. Then his face broke
into a mischievous smile:

“It depends on the sahibs!”’

Outside the snow was still coming down in great flakes.

132

CHAPTER VIII
THE AVALANCHE

THE inexorable date was approaching far too quickly; and yet
these meaningless days of inaction went on and on. On August
28, now so horribly close, the coolies would arrive. And when
the last grain of sand had run out, victors or vanquished, we
should have to pack up and go.

It was now August 17—only twelve days left! More than
enough in actual time, yet not half long enough to get the better
of Nun. Our dream was to plant our ice-axes on that little
square of snow, whether bathed in sunlight or swept by storm,
and then hurry away with our treasure safe in our hearts for
ever. Everything depended on the weather: we could do no-
thing. Here the mountains were masters.

And yet on August 17 the sky was full of promise. It no
longer rained or snowed or hailed, and even the mist had gone.
Certainly the great clouds sweeping along with the wind still
looked menacing, but the sun was behind, ready to warm the
earth again, to transform the snow, to caress the rock and re-
joice our spirits. The sun is meant to give that hope which
strengthens faith, and many times that day it appeared and
disappeared. As night fell, the wind broke up the vault of cloud
as if by magic, and stars we hadn’t seen for days again appeared
in the Himalayan sky—the Great Bear, the little Pole star, and
the proud Southern Cross. Yet it never occurred to us to start
off. We just did not believe in this sudden change.

* * * * *

It was two o’clock in the morning, and I could not get to
sleep. For hours I had been twisting and turning and sighing.
I was the only one who couldn’t sleep, and it wasn’t for lack of
sleeping-pills. But I was obsessed by Nun; it had gripped me
and would not let me go.

Once again I wriggled out of my sleeping-bag, got up and
went out of the tent, hoping that a turn in the night air would

133

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

soothe me. A hundred yards from the tents I sat on a rock
facing Nun. The sky was a galaxy of stars. It was mild, de-
liciously mild. Not a sound, not a breath of life. Then, occa-
sionally the crash of a stone-fall on the south face—an evil noise,
like an express coming out of a tunnel—a few straggling stones,
then nothing. Everything returned to normal and the silence of
the grave.

Lit up by the moon, the face of Nun gleamed fantastically.
The play of light and shade combined to give an enhanced
severity to this monstrous edifice, at once confused yet mighty.
I questioned Nun. When would she give herself up? She re-
mained as silent and impassive as a Sphinx, and mocked me.
Who was it who said: “One must enjoy nature, not worship it.
Mountains and the stars should not be taken seriously”? I got
up and moved slowly up the scree. I had to consider the prob-
lem calmly. Two camps were now well established, with equip-
ment and provisions. The way to the third was begun. We were
in splendid fettle physically, perfectly acclimatised, and our will
to win was stronger than ever. What were we waiting for here?
The sky was blue and cloudless. This was ridiculous, we must
go up to meet the fine weather, it must find us at a high camp.
If we waited, and then had to go up to Camp III, it would be
too late. Our look-out ought to be established high up, in view
of the summit; we must be up there to snatch opportunity when
it came. At present, we were losing the game: our adversary
had almost lulled us to sleep.

I was all keyed up as I made my way back to the tent, and
decided I’d wake Pierre, and tell him everything.

While I was taking off my boots, I heard a little cough, and
the rustle of an air-mattress. Someone else was sleepless: and
that person, I thought, was Pierre. So I whispered:

“Is that you, Pierre? You’re not asleep, either?”

“No, Ive been thinking of Nun.”

““Me too. I feel all worked up. I’ve just been taking a turn
outside. The weather’s magnificent . . . and I’ve been thinking
things out. I’ve a plan. It’s lucky you’re awake—I couldn’t
keep it to myself any longer.”

“T’m listening.”

I began in a low, conspiratorial voice.

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The Avalanche

‘“‘The weather seems to have improved. Maybe it is not yet
set fair. But I think the really bad period is over. To-morrow
we'll go carefully over the inventories of each camp, draw up a
list of what each of us must carry, and settle our system of sup-
port; in short, we'll prepare the assault down to the last detail.
I think that to-morrow we must send up an advance party of
Sherpas to Camp I to prepare for our arrival and to repair the
damage. There must have been quite a bit with all this snow.

“The following day the rest of us will leave Base Camp. We
must snatch at the fine weather, go ahead and be ready for it.
Otherwise we shall stupidly lose all too precious days.

“On the 21st we'll establish Camp ITI, following the route we
have already begun. It’s safer, and we haven’t the time to look
for another way. Then on the 22nd we'll try for the summit.
Of course we may fail. But we shall still have a week in which to
launch one or even two more attempts.

“Given reasonable weather, it'll be hellish bad luck if we don’t
succeed. Anyway, we shall have set our consciences at rest. We
shall have done everything we could. Now what’s your view?”

“It seems perfectly reasonable to me. We must go up.”

For another half-hour we discussed a whole lot of things,
gradually raising our voices as if we’d been alone. We finished
by waking Claude, who joined in the discussion. She is very well
balanced, and her views are always full of good sense.

Another half-hour went by while Michel slept peacefully and
Jean snored like Napoleon on the eve of battle. Our conversa-
tion was now less animated, more broken.

“What time is it?” inquired Claude.

Three-fifteen.”’

“Don’t you think it’s time to go to sleep again?”

Unburdened and at peace, we settled back in our sleeping-
bags.

* * * * *

“Bernard’s impatience is as refreshing as a thunderstorm,”
said Claude to Jean and Michel as she explained to them what
had happened the previous night. Meanwhile Pierre and I flew
across to the Sherpas’ tent to tell Ang Tharkay of our plans. He
was delighted, and a broad smile lit up his kindly face. He

135

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

hadn’t dared say anything, but he, too, had had enough of
inaction. The Sherpas had been following the conversation, and
these quiet and sensible men began to sing and to whistle and
bounce about. Pemba grabbed the saucepan, filled it with
water, and lit the fire as though we were off at once to conquer
Nun.

From his tent Nalni had become aware of all this early-morn-
ing rumpus. Guessing that something was afoot, he came to find
out, even before cleaning his teeth. I told him of the decision,
and, although usually so reserved, he gave me a great pat on the
back, with a “Good idea, Bernard!”

Half an hour later the sahibs were collected in the mess-tent
with porridge and tea before them. As we ate we made final
arrangements for our departure. There was a good deal of dis-
cussion. The atmosphere was very different from the previous
day: to the flatness, lethargy, and disenchantment to which we
had fallen victims, happiness had now succeeded, and the wish
to be in the fight again, and sudden exhilaration. How strong
a motive power is hope!

Breakfast over, everyone threw themselves into their jobs,
happy to satisfy their thirst for action. Sahibs and Sherpas
were milling around, all busily asking questions. The ground
was littered with little piles of equipment and provisions, and
ice-axes were stuck in the earth in a circle. Boots shone with
grease. It was a regular clearing of the decks for action. I could
not help comparing Base Camp with the deck of a corsair just
before boarding a ship. We were like buccaneers who for days
had vainly scanned the four corners of the sea for some unhappy
victim and had now just sighted one on the horizon.

Meanwhile Nun watched us; perhaps she was saying: “I’m
waiting for them, those insects! They’ve no idea of the recep-
tion I am preparing for them.’ Our adversary was of a sus-
picious nature, and, as Michel declared, ‘“‘She’s easily roused.”

The sky was mediocre: cloudy, with intermittent sun. We
didn’t care. At four in the afternoon, two Sherpas, Gyaldzen
and Pa Norbu, left for Camp I. Satisfied with the work accom-
lished, we swallowed bowls of tea and went on with an unfinished
game of belote.

“Shall we play seriously, or shall we cheat?” inquired Pierre.

136

The Avalanche

August 19, the day we were to set out, the weather was not
too good, with clouds blowing over from Zaskar. These were
our nightmare. They reminded us of those which, the previous
year, had come up from the Amazon, always bringing rain,
snow, wind, and storms. And it would be the same here. But
no matter, we had decided to leave. Anyway, we waited until
the afternoon so as not to use up the provisions and Calor gas at
Camp I.

Although there were plenty of jokes, there was also a feeling
of tension. We were all on edge, as before an exam. “To come
so far and make such an effort and then go home without the
summit would be simply frightful!’ sighed Claude.

In spite of our considerable anxiety we did honour to the
copious lunch prepared by that master-cook, Ang Tharkay. An
hour later on the humpy moraine all was not so well; particu-
larly as the previous days’ inactivity had considerably softened
up our muscles. However, we were evidently in good form,
since we took barely two hours to reach Camp I, thus beating
our own record.

Nun rose before us splendid and immaculate, more beautiful
and desirable than ever. This vision reconciled us with our
mountain. Michel and I still had in mind the image which had
appeared before us on August 11 for a few moments in that
dramatic break in the clouds: a ferocious Nun, with an im-
mense great face, interminable ridges, and a summit cone, cold
and, above all, distant.

During a part of the night it snowed. In the morning there
was a radiant sun. Never had we seen such weather. If only it
would last, even just for two or three days. ... At nine-thirty
we took leave of Nalni and Ang Phuter, who would remain at
Camp J; higher up there would not be enough tents for every-
one. Our plan of action was as follows. Five sahibs and three
Sherpas would spend the night at Camp II. Two of the Sherpas
would then return directly and go up again to Camp II early
the following morning with Nalni and Ang Phuter. From there
the Sherpas would come on with us to establish Camp III; then
all of them, except Ang Tharkay, would return the same day to
Camp II. Nalni and the five Sherpas would thus form the first
support party. The second would have to be constituted later,

137

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

at Camp III, to back up the summit party. On the face of it
this system looked sound enough.

An hour and a half later, when we were half-way up the
Tower, there was a total change in outlook: the sun had dis-
appeared and the sky had grown dark; we realised, with a sink-
ing of the heart, that we were in for trouble. A close-packed
army of greenish clouds, heavy and menacing, was preparing to
storm Nun. We were for it all right. Soon torrents of hail
poured down upon us; hailstones as big as marbles drummed on
our anoraks and lashed savagely at our faces. Then the wind
joined in, and the squalls were of such violence that at times we
had to cling to our ice-axes to keep our balance.

Half an hour later the hail stopped, but things were little
better: it began to snow. Nevertheless, we continued to ascend
resolutely; at one-thirty we reached Camp II. It was a bad
sight. Our tents had not been able to withstand the storm. In-
side they were filled with puddles of water. As for the terraces
we had levelled—they were just a memory. We looked at all
this stunned, amazed, and discouraged.

Well, if we were going to spend the night there, there was no
time to be lost. We set to with a will, helping the Sherpas, who
were putting their backs into it. Gyaldzen and Kami were to
leave at once: if the bad weather persisted, they would be stuck
here and we had not enough sleeping-bags. Ang Tharkay im-
pressed on them that the following day they must come up as
early as possible with Ang Phuter and Nalni.

Working away in the falling snow, we baled out the puddles,
took down the tents and put them up again after having re-
made the terraces.

It took us three hours’ steady work to make good the damage.
We would certainly remember that day! At last, around five
o’clock, we were able to burrow into our shelters. Alas, they
were like ice-boxes. We could find no warmth in our eiderdown
sleeping-bags, nor in the scalding tea we gulped down. Yet
what tremendous moral support these frail canvas shelters can
give! As evening drew in, the sun infuriated us by putting in an
appearance too late to be any use. We were condemned to spend
the night in our refrigerators.

* * * * *

138

The Avalanche

Never shall we forget the luminous Himalayan evening next
day on August 21, at Camp III at 21,000 feet. The last rays of
the sun caught the flurries of blown snow so that the atmosphere
was coloured by a myriad crystals. To the south the Zaskar
peaks were submerged by a vast sea of cloud which swirled
round Nun, and spent itself on the mountain’s flanks. The Bat
Kol glacier could be seen through a clearing, bathed in a golden
light, then the ocean of mist pressed in again, hiding the Suru
valley and extending beyond it as far as the eye could see. On
the hazy northern horizon, hung between earth and sky like
dream mountains, emerged the eight-thousanders of the Kara-
koram and the round hump of Nanga Parbat.

And close at hand, but cold and haughty, was Nun, at which
we scarcely dared look, with three little tents buried in the snow
at its feet. Never had we been so impressed by the grandeur of
the Himalaya, at once so heartening and so devastating. Never
had we understood so well the real stature of man, at once so
insignificant and so indomitable.

The Sherpas had left us an hour ago—we had followed them
down with our eyes, and from time to time they turned round
to wave before disappearing finally behind a big white bulge.
As they vanished we couldn’t help a twinge of melancholy, like
lighthouse-keepers gazing at the departing relief boat. We were
now alone with our destiny. Would it be the top, to-morrow?
Perhaps, if the heavens smiled. Four of us—Claude, Michel,
Pierre, and myself—were on this last lap, and would try to
make the last 2,300 feet. Jean, who had done so very well for
the party the year before on Salcantay, knew that his duties as
doctor didn’t allow him to take part in the final assault. He
would stay in support with Ang Tharkay.

We should climb on two separate ropes. I was convinced that
two parties were better than two men alone. For one thing they
can relieve each other at breaking the trail, and if one is hurt
there are three to help him. And finally, from the standpoint of
morale, this arrangement has many advantages. Possibly two
ae travel slightly less fast than one, but on balance it works
well.

We had an early supper so as to have a longer night before
going into action. Our appetites were quite good—an excellent

139

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

sign. But we were affected by the height, all the same, and in
each one of us this produced different reactions. Claude was
over-excited and chattered like a magpie; Pierre, who isn’t so
talkative, was satisfied by indicating approval from time to time;
Jean and Ang Tharkay kept silent; Michel and I built castles in
the air, discussing just how we would take the summit photo-
graph. Vanity of vanities!

The next day the alarm went off at 5 a.m. My hands were
trembling as I opened the flap of the tent. Cloud and mist.
What had happened to the evening’s promise, to the hopeful-
looking sunset? Pierre had been looking at the sky too, and
made no bones about his disappointment. In any case we had
to act as though we were going to leave. Maybe the clouds
would disperse with the first rays of the sun. Silently, with slow
and clumsy movements, we made our preparations. Then Ang
Tharkay brought the porridge. It did not go down very well.

At six-thirty the mist cleared. But over to the south lowering
clouds were coming from the Zaskar region and approaching us
rapidly. Certainly the sky was quite clear towards the Kara-
koram, but this was of no interest to us. It was not from the
northern sky that we could foretell the future; nothing could
stop the inexorable approach of the monsoon from the south.

At seven-thirty we had to decide whether to leave—it was a
case of now or never. We shouldn’t have any too much time to
climb the 2,300 feet in the day. My view was that it was too
risky in such uncertain weather. I asked the others what they
thought.

*“No good. Do you agree?”

Ves,”

‘No good’”’—how sadly the phrase echoed in our hearts. Well,
the die was cast. |

At ten o’clock the snow began to fall gently, but half an hour
later it was snowing heavily. So the decision not to attack Nun
was wise. There was a short break about midday, but soon after
the snow came on again. The hours dragged endlessly by. In-
action sapped our strength and whittled away at our reserves of
nervous energy. Michel and I were silent in our tent, and so
were the others. What ought we todo? Remain where we were
and wait for fine weather? But we were eating into a limited

140

The Avalanche

stock of provisions, and we ran the risk of being dangerously cut
off by the storm. Return to Camp II, then? But this would
mean losing a day coming up again. Stay or go down? Go
down or stay?

To relieve our impatience and distract our minds, we decided
on a game of belote—a game of 6,420 points, since the height was
6,420 metres. Hunched up in Claude and Pierre’s two-man
tent, we forced ourselves to play. Gradually we became im-
mersed in the game; we almost succeeded in forgetting that we
were at Camp III and that it was snowing hopelessly. It is im-
possible to imagine what a stand-by cards can be during a
Himalayan expedition!

Thanks to belote the afternoon at last came to an end. The
snow had stopped, it was even quite fine for a while and Nun
unveiled herself. But this was not enough to make us at all
hopeful. We knew only too well that we had struck a spell of
bad weather. Again we had supper early, and sleeping-pills
sent us straight off to sleep, but unhappily not for long. “Just
listen to the snow!” whispered Michel. We had to flick the
canvas continually with the back of a hand to prevent the snow
collecting on the roof. The same performance was going on in
the other two tents, where they weren’t sleeping any better than
we were. Would the night never end?

* * * * *

‘At six o’clock in the morning of August 23 it was still snowing,
and in addition there was a high wind, which shook the tents
fiercely. There was no doubt now: at the first break in the
weather we must pack up and go. I left my tent to visit Pierre
and Claude in theirs. What quantities of snow! The terraces
we had levelled had disappeared, the tents were half-buried, I
sank in up to the knees in powder snow, and the gusts whipped.
my face. I dived into their tent, which adjoined Jean’s and
Ang Tharkay’s. They looked gloomy. There seemed to be no
need for long explanations.

““We must get down as soon as possible. Food’s running short,
and we’re deteriorating physically. I don’t know whether you
feel like me, but I’ve got the jitters—something tells me we.
shouldn’t stay here.”

141

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

“That goes for us too,” replied Pierre and Jean. ‘“‘We were
going to suggest retreat.”

“What rotten luck,” sighed Claude. ‘‘To have to give up
when we’re so near our goal.”

And Ang Tharkay, usually so optimistic, was also in favour of
evacuating the camp; so there was nothing more to be said.

There was no getting round it. So far Nun Kun had beaten
us. We had been rebuffed. But we didn’t despair. We would
come back.

Six o’clock, seven o’clock, eight o’clock—it was certainly
snowing less heavily, but the mist was just as thick, and there
now seemed to be no hope of it lifting. We would have to get
ready to go down. We left some of our personal belongings be-
hind—gloves, socks, and also cameras, films, exposure meters, a
dozen reels for the cine-camera. I hesitated about taking the
latter with me: it weighed a couple of pounds, and I should only
have to bring it up again. And above 20,000 feet it weighs more
than two pounds! Michel resolved my doubt.

“I'd take it along, you never know.”

We were all ready with our rucksacks on, and the tents were
fastened. Good-bye to Camp III! We stepped out into the
powder snow, and sank well in. Pierre, who had Claude and
Jean on his rope, went first; then I followed with Michel and
Ang Tharkay, who came down last.

After we had gone about a hundred yards I called to Pierre to
stop, and when we caught them up I suggested that Ang Thar-
kay went down first. ‘‘He has far more experience than us. The
old boy’s seen worse weather than this during his twenty years
mountaineering, and he’ll know how to get us down.”

“Right you are. But we must all keep together. This mist’s
so thick, you could cut it with a knife.”

We started off again, absolutely blind. Should we ever, in
this pea-souper, find the flags with which we had prudently
marked the ascent on August 21? They were now our only
landmarks, for there was no question of picking out our tracks
with the new snow that had fallen since then. And a compass
was Clearly no use at all. ;

We couldn’t find the first flag. Ang Tharkay took off his
glasses, went forward thirty yards and stopped. Nota thing. He

142

The Avalanche

went on again for another hundred yards. Still not a thing. It
was incredible. Could the markers have been covered up by
the snow? Yet Pierre was quite sure he had put one in just
before reaching Camp III. It meant we weren’t going in the
right direction.

If we could not find Camp II, then it was good-bye to all hope
of shelter, and survival itself would probably have to be paid for
with serious frost-bite. If we went on wandering about in the
mist like this we’d run into the seracs and crevasses of the ice-
fall. And we shouldn’t be able to guess where the crevasses were,
since they would be masked by the new snow.

Ang Tharkay smelt danger and slanted right over to the left.
The descent proceeded slowly and deliberately, in the uneasy
silence of a muffled world. A few snowflakes eddied in the mist,
but the wind had lost its force, and the temperature had risen:
a really bad sign. It was about to snow again.

The six climbers who only two days before had been pressing
to the attack, were now reduced to six anxious creatures con-
cerned only with their safety.

How on earth were we to find our way in this white desert?
Between the old Camp III at 20,200 feet, which was now our
first objective, and the final Camp III at 21,000, there was
nothing—as we well remembered—but a vast expanse of snow,
lying at an angle of not more than 30°, which was practically
featureless. Thus it was difficult, if not impossible, to recognise
where we were. But, on the contrary, between the old Camp
III and Camp II route-finding would be much easier: there
were seracs, knolls, crevasses, a large spur, and a long couloir;
landmarks which we remembered clearly. But here there was
nothing, not a damn thing.

Mechanically we continued the monotonous and discourag-
ing descent, sinking in up to the knees and sometimes to the
thighs. Then suddenly Ang Tharkay gave a cry of joy. He had
found a small piece of yellow paper. And the triangle emerging
from the snow was a flag. Victory! We broke into smiles. It
put new heart into us, and as the snow was falling less thickly,
our morale went soaring up.

Clearly luck was with us, and half an hour later we came upon
the old Camp III. Ang Tharkay’s instinct had triumphed again,

143

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

and we congratulated him warmly. We now decided to make
a halt and feed: it was twelve-thirty, which meant we had taken
more than three hours to descend less than 1,000 feet, whereas
in fine weather half an hour would have been enough.

We left again at one o’clock, quite easy in our minds, for this
part of the route would be far easier to find. One by one we
picked out the features which we had registered in our memories;
and even the flags were now visible. The wind had probably
blown away a good deal of the new snow, and our landmarks
were no longer completely submerged as they had been higher
up.
For an hour and a half we zig-zagged through a very broken-
up area; we advanced very slowly, for we were blinded by the
mist, but we were on the right track, and now came to the long
couloir leading to the foot of the spur, from which point we
would have to slant across to the left. Suddenly the veil of mist
parted and Ang Tharkay, always on the alert, saw three of his
Sherpas in the distance. They thought we were still at Camp Il
and, spurred on by that admirable Sherpa sense of duty, they
were determined at all costs to bring us food. Our Sirdar let out
a yodel; startled by this unexpected call, they stopped, then
answered. Ang Tharkay then turned towards us and, pointing
with his ice-axe, he cried:

““Sahibs, sahibs, Camp IT!”

His words put new heart into us. In an hour we should be out
of the wood. We were overjoyed, and our joy made us oblivious
of danger. We had entirely forgotten that the Himalaya pos-
sess a most formidable weapon: the avalanche. Not for a second
had we reflected that the mass of new snow might slide down at
any moment and drag us with it like straws.

At the end of the long couloir we found a marker flag, where
the route doubled back. We had to make right over to the left
to traverse across the flank of the great dome, whose slope lay at
a fairly steep angle, 35° to 40°, if I remembered rightly. We
began the traverse.

There was a pfft, like the noise you make when you tear 4
piece of silk, then a grinding which grew louder and turned into
a sinister cracking...

I turned round. There was a jagged line across the snow

144

Under the Tower: Claude Kogan in action.

“spd4ays

uapv] pavnsofos 0} aoa paxif ay} gjou 24am J, ay} uo sdajs ouijjn’y “mous 7f0S ur ]D4] ayy ouryoaig

ggg

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fe

The Avalanche

just below Pierre, who was first man on the second rope. A
great slab came away.

Even before I was able instinctively to ram my ice-axe deep
into the snow, my feet slid forward and I fell over backwards. I
was swiftly carried away on a sliding carpet, while at the same
time a heavy mass of snow fell on top of me. Fortunately my
cagoule slipped right over my head, and saved me from having
my face buried in the snow, and perhaps from being suffocated.

One is always told that the thing to do in an avalanche is to
make a swimming motion. But, alas, I was bound and held as
if I’d been in a vice. I could not make even the slightest move
to protect myself, and my chest was crushed in by a tremendous
weight. The mountain was tossing me about, like a cork bob-
bing around in a raging torrent, thrown from rock to rock; now
submerged by an eddy, now brought to the surface, only to
disappear again farther on.

In spite of the rapidity with which everything happened, and
in spite of the extreme violence of the shock, my mind seemed
to be absolutely clear. That made it all the more frightful that
I was incapable of doing anything at all. We were done for.
We had thought of everything, except an avalanche. And it was
I, the leader of the expedition, who had lured the others into this
adventure. It is said that on the threshold of death you re-live
your life and see the faces of your dear ones. I found this abso-
lutely true, and all these faces flashed before my eyes, like a film
gone mad.

Then suddenly, having touched the depths of misery, I pulled
myself together, I revolted against this surrender and renuncia-
tion. Why should I die? I must go on struggling to the bitter
end. And just then I had the feeling that the vice was relaxing
its grip, and at once I began toswim. My cagoule was still pressed
against my face, but in the darkness I seemed to guess that I
ee come to the surface, since I no longer felt any weight on my
chest.

It was only a reprieve. My fall began again, and worse. The
speed at which I was carried down increased. An undercurrent
lifted me up, turned me over on my stomach, and sent me rolling
head first with my feet in the air. Instinctively I stretched out
my arms with my palms flat on the snow, trying to keep myself

K 145

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

from sinking in. But at this moment a big block of compacted
snow hit my back, knocked me on the head, and stunned me.

Hope: I don’t know how, but a few seconds later I was again
on the surface. I quickly breathed in some fresh air. Despair:
once more I was submerged, twisted and turned, and knocked
about. The rope between Michel and me cut into my chest,
crushing my ribs. I was stifled.

Hope: I seemed to come to the surface again, to live once
more. Despair: the avalanche continued on its way. The whole
sea was in tumult, I tried hard with all my might to swim. Once
more I endured the double torture of being submerged and
choked.

Despair: I was right under. Arms and legs were powerless.
My chest felt as though it would burst. I was suffocating. This
was the end. My eyes began to cloud, my limbs to stiffen.

Then I was delivered. I went up into a cloud, sprang on its
back, and flew away.

* * * * *

How long had I been unconscious? Where was 1? What had
happened? A miracle. The foot of the avalanche slope ran out
on to a level plateau, and it was here that the mass of snow came
to rest.

I was alive; but bruised and battered all over. I moaned and
groaned and gasped. The rope cut into my chest, and I still
don’t know how I succeeded in undoing it. Then I got my
cagoule off and could breathe more freely. I opened my mouth
wildly for great gulps of air. But each breath drew a cry from
me: Oh, my ribs! I was blinded by the glare from the snow—
my goggles had disappeared, and when I raised my hand to pro-
tect my eyes I felt them absolutely icy, for I had lost my gloves.

But where, in heaven’s name, were the others?

The shock had made me lose all sense of actuality. Since re-
gaining consciousness I had completely forgotten that we were
on Nun Kun, and that a few moments ago we had all been talk-
ing cheerfully together on the way down from Camp III. What
had happened to all the others? The only answer was an
utter and heart-rending silence. Not a groan, not a cry, not
a shout. Could they be .. .? No, it couldn’t be thought of.

146

The Avalanche

I had my back to the slope, and I dared not turn round to
size up the extent of the catastrophe. Yet I simply must do so.

But first of all I had to get up. It had become an obsession.
Like a boxer who has been knocked out and who longs to get
on his feet as he hears, as in a dream, the referee counting the
seconds. With a violent effort of will I succeeded in getting to
my knees, then, helping myself with my hands, I stood up, only
to flop back into the snow through dizziness. I was furious with
myself: if I couldn’t stand up I would go on all fours. Making a
fresh effort, I turned myself facing the slope. I lifted my head.
High up, about a thousand feet above me were three black
specks. They moved....So the second rope, with Pierre,
Claude, and Jean, were alive. By good luck the tail of the
avalanche had only dragged them down fifty yards or so. Of
course, I remembered then: Pierre had been just above the split,
just above the mass of snow which had carried us down.

But about fifty feet from me there was a tragic sight. Ang
Tharkay, spitting blood, was clawing the snow furiously, his face
set in a ghastly grin. Had he lost his wits? Near him, a dreadful
sight, a hand stuck up—nothing but a hand!

Ang Tharkay was yelling, ‘Sahib! Sahib!’ Then I under-
stood, Michel was buried. In a flash I remembered that before
leaving France, I had written a letter to Michel’s mother to re-
assure her that we would do nothing rash, that nothing would
happen to him. And now, I’d broken my word.

I cried, ‘‘Michel, Michel, where is Michel? ”’ I shouted to the
others to come and help. Pierre began to run full speed down
the slope. Painfully, and still on all fours, I climbed up towards
Ang Tharkay. When at last I reached him he had succeeded in
freeing Michel’s head, and he had the presence of mind, in spite
of his own suffering, to remove the snow plugging Michel’s
mouth, and thus saved him from certain suffocation.

“Michel, Michel...”

Our eyes met. He still had the strength to smile faintly.
Thank God, he was alive!

I fainted with relief.

147

CHAPTER IX
DISAPPEARANCE OF CAMP III

THE accident had taken place before the eyes of the startled
Sherpas, who immediately took off their rucksacks and rushed
to our help. They had the presence of mind to bring with them
an oxygen cylinder which they were taking up to Camp III.
This was how I came to be breathing in the life-giving stuff
when I regained consciousness; but as my wits were a bit scat-
tered I couldn’t make out why I had a tube in my mouth.
Pemba Norbu, seeing I had no glasses, had put his own over my
eyes without thought of the probable risk to his own eyes; then
he set to and vigorously rubbed my frozen hands. Kami had
already taken off my boots and was rubbing one foot, having
wrapped the other in his own down jacket. As a result of his
devotion he contracted pneumonia, from which he subsequently
nearly died.

The oxygen acted as a strong pick-me-up, and I completely
recovered my senses. When I looked round, I saw the M.O.,
who, with the aid of a Sherpa, was helping Michel back to
Camp II, and behind them Ang Tharkay staggering down sup-
ported by another Sherpa. That Jean was with us, and that the
Sherpas had come immediately to our rescue, were the two
strokes of luck in our misadventure.

Claude and Pierre were collecting various objects that had
been wrenched from us by the avalanche: here a sack, there an
ice-axe or glove. It looked as if we’d lost quite a number of
things. The slope was a proper battlefield—ploughed up into
vast furrows, or a series of frozen waves which reached practi-
cally down to where we were now. Enormous blocks of com-
pacted snow littered the ground, and out of one of them stuck
a marker-flag. I couldn’t think how it was still on the surface.

Claude and Pierre came slowly down to join me, looking all
round them.

“We've come back from the dead.”

““You’re quite right.”

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Disappearance of Camp III

“We can thank God for our lives.”

“You can indeed,”’ replied Pierre.

These were our first words; but it was only a few minutes ago
that we had been chatting away so gaily, happy to have seen the
last of our troubles. The avalanche, the escape from death, the
arrival of help, the removal of the injured—all this had hap-
pened in a nightmare flash.

*‘And how are you feeling yourself?” asked Claude.

“I’m sore all over, especially my ribs. But it’s nothing much.
What about the others?”

There was a moment’s silence; the other two looked down.

‘Michel seems to be badly hurt,” Pierre began. “The M.O.
is very pessimistic. When J got him out he was in an impossible
position: doubled right up. The rope between him and you
was pulling his chest forward, whilst blocks of snow were push-
ing him back. I thought his back was broken and that he was
about to die before my eyes. It was frightful—I’ll never forget
it. Yet Michel still had his wits about him. He asked me to cut
the rope. But as he was gripped in this sort of vice, Ang Tharkay
and I had great difficulty in freeing first his chest, then a leg.
However, I’d shouted for help, and Claude and Jean came
down; they helped me to get Michel right out and sit him down.
Then Ang Tharkay collapsed, exhausted by the effort, and lay
beside us moaning quietly. Just then the Sherpas arrived, and
Pemba and Kami took charge of you—you were pretty nearly
unconscious. The doctor shoved the oxygen tube in your mouth
and then went on with the most urgent job: getting Michel
down. Then Ang Tharkay got up with the help of a Sherpa and
went off towards the camp. Jean says there doesn’t seem to be
anything seriously wrong with him except shock and chest
bruises, like yourself.”

“But if Michel can walk, maybe it’s not so serious?”

““Let’s hope not. But the M.O. is pretty gloomy about it, all
the same.”

““We’ll just have to wait for Jean’s report. But I want to know
about you. Tell me what happened while we go down to the
camp.”

“It’s quite close,” said Claude. ‘‘About three or four hundred
yards, There’s just this bit to cross.”

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A Mountain Called Nun Kun

“Then we must have fallen a height of nearly five hundred
feet over a distance of three hundred yards. On August 11, the
day Michel, Ang Tharkay, Pemba, and I tried to establish
Camp III, I had looked at my altimeter at the bottom of the
couloir, a little bit above the point at which the avalanche
started. It registered about 19,700 feet. Since Camp II is at
19,200 feet . . . that makes quite a decent fall. And I’ve never
had an accident in the mountains before. Well, I shan’t forget
this first experience in a hurry! However, we’ve escaped with
our lives, which is the main thing. And how about you?”

Pierre told me briefly what had happened to his party:

“For a long time I had been close behind you. I don’t know
why, but when we got to the bottom of the couloir I stopped a
minute, so that there was at least fifty feet between us when the
avalanche started.”

“You certainly had a hunch!”

“There was a dull noise, a great crack appeared, and you had
gone. The tail of the avalanche followed in the same tracks, and
I found myself lying on my side. But I immediately realised that
my party was in no danger. In spite of my position, I was able
to make use of my crampons, which held well, and I clawed the
snow with my hands, which were bare, goodness knows why.
Twice I felt the jerk of the rope, and I told myself that it was
Claude and Jean trying to drive their axes in. My fall slowed
up an instant, then I began sliding again. At last, after about
fifty yards, I was able to drive my axe in, and I came to a stop.
Looking round, I saw that Jean had succeeded in doing like-
wise, thus stopping Claude. I at once unroped and ran as fast
as I could to the bottom of the slope. I saw that you were lying
still, but luckily you weren’t buried. Michel had disappeared, sol
rushed to help Ang Tharkay dig him out. The rest you know....’

I reflected how lucky it was that Claude and Pierre were un-
hurt, for they were the two trump cards of our expedition; they
made a strong and experienced rope whose morale was un-
breakable. All hope was not lost: with these two the summit
might still be gained, but only if Michel’s condition did not prove
serious. Otherwise there was no question—we would have to
give up and return to the valley as quickly as possible to get him
to hospital.

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Disappearance of Camp II

When we reached camp it started to hail. I rushed to Michel’s
tent. He was crying with pain as the Sherpas rubbed his hands.
Pemba was giving him scalding tea to drink with pure alcohol in
it, since we hadn’t any rum. Jean had been able to make a
preliminary examination. ‘‘No damage to the spine,” he said,
“but severe bruising to the back.”” What a relief! Ang Tharkay
was also the object of the Sherpas’ devoted attention. They
were amazed to see Jean give their Sirdar a morphia injection
in the thigh, when it was his ribs which were giving him
pain.

As for myself, I was feeling faint again, for the bracing effect
of the oxygen had ceased. I began to vomit, my head swam, and
my legs trembled. ‘‘Pierre,’’ I called out, “I’m all in. I know
I’m going to faint again. You take over.”

Kami laid me in a tent, took off my boots, and tried to bring
the circulation back to my feet. My left ribs were very painful:
possibly one was broken.

“Tt is the inevitable reaction now that the muscles are cold,”
Jean informed me. “It’s quite normal.”

The M.O. gave himself up to looking after us, and we admired
his devotion. What on earth should we have done without him?
He went from one tent to the next, attending to the injured, giv-
ing heart stimulants, morphia injections, and oxygen. By four
o’clock he had us on our feet and ready to go down to Camp I.
Pierre had in fact decided that there was still time to get away,
and it was a wise decision. If the appalling bad weather con-
tinued we ran the risk of being besieged, and the next day would
perhaps have been even more painful for the injured, if not
actually more dangerous. Once at Camp I it would be an easy
matter to get down to Base Camp. Furthermore, we should
be og height, which would allow us to recuperate more
easily,

The descent began in the semi-obscurity of a thick mist in
which a few snowflakes fluttered down. We split up into several
ropes. Gyaldzen and Pa Norbu (who had remained in the
camp and had not been aware of the accident) made the trail,
followed by Michel with Pierre holding him on a tight
rope.

Then came Ang Tharkay between Ang Phuter and Pemba

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A Mountain Called Nun Kun

Norbu. Claude, myself, and Jean brought up the rear. Nalni,
whom we had supposed to be at Camp II, had not been able to
get up there, for he was not well, the Sherpas told us. So he
would be at Camp I.

It was a nightmare descent, with Michel crying out at every
false step, Ang Tharkay shaken by bouts of vomiting, and my-
self groaning as my ribs hurt more and more. And we were
frightened too, and turned anxious eyes on the snow slopes,
wondering if they were going to give way under us. It took us
nearly three hours to descend the Tower. It was horribly pain-
ful, but at last, admirably supported by our friends, we came to
the end of our ordeal. To reach Camp I we had to climb up a
slope of only about a hundred yards. But it was too much. The
injured men were exhausted and stopped every ten steps. When
Michel collapsed, Pierre supported him under the arms and on
they went. Somehow the caravan stumbled up to the col we
had christened, in unconscious irony, Col of Good Hope. We
must have looked absurd, ten tiny creatures against this vast
majestic background, bowed by their defeat, wounded in their
pride.

The silence was overwhelming. It was no longer snowing,
but heavy banks of mist still hung about the dreary landscape.
The sky grew darker; the light faded, and the sadness of twilight
reflected the sadness in our hearts. Yet we could not but thank
God that we had returned alive from our venture.

* * * * *

Forgetting their own exhaustion, the other climbers and
Sherpas had no thought except for us. Scarcely had we arrived
when they rushed to get the camp ready so that the injured could
get some rest, and then they undressed us and took off our boots.
We were absolutely at the end of our tether.

In spite of our exhaustion, it was an enormous relief to know
that, by our horrible descent from Camp II, we had put our-
selves out of reach of the thunder of Nun. To-morrow we would
be at Base Camp, a heavenly prospect, and all our wounds, of
body and spirit, would begin to heal.

Nalni was not there. Before leaving he had left a long note,
which I read by the light of a flickering candle.

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Disappearance of Camp III

“Camp I. August 22. 20 hrs.
“My dear Bernard,

‘What awful weather for your attack! Early this morn-
ing the sky looked very uncertain. I thought the weather might
improve, but soon the clouds covered Nun, the wind rose, the
snow began to fall and a fierce storm broke, that looked as if it
might carry Camp I away. At the moment it’s snowing and the
wind is blowing fiercely. It must be like this on the South Col
of Everest in bad weather.

“T don’t need to tell you that without anything to read I am
absolutely lost, and the tent feels like a prison. Time passes ter-
ribly slowly. Occasionally I look outside, but I see nothing but
gloom, damnation, disillusionment, and death. A day of judg-
ment atmosphere.

“Perhaps to-morrow will look more hopeful. May your efforts
be crowned with success!

“No doubt the Sherpas will have told you why I didn’t go up
to Camp II, as you asked me to. You were probably rather
annoyed, but this is what happened. When I woke yesterday I
had an attack of vomiting. Although I felt very weak, because
I hadn’t been able to swallow anything, I still wanted to start.
But after going a third of the way, and in spite of desperate
efforts, I simply had no strength left, and was reduced to going
helplessly on all fours. When a climber reaches this stage it is
certainly not lack of will-power or morale, but because his body
won’t stand it. So I had to give up and I hated doing so; our
splendid Sherpas helped me down and then went up themselves
to Camp II. So here I am alone, but thinking of you all the
time.

“To-day, in spite of our prayers, the Gods have shown them-
selves relentless. I suppose I must assume that your plans have
failed. At the moment my tent is flapping madly and the wind
is howling desperately. Is this the monsoon again? I hope not.

“To-morrow I know that I shall have to go back to Base Camp
and retire from the field of action. It isn’t that I want to cut
myself off from the rest of you, but I consider that, here at Camp
I, ve become a parasite, consuming food and fuel that you
may urgently need. Yet I can’t bring myself to leave this camp,
for I am desperately anxious for news of you.

153

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

“Forgive this lengthy epistle. I can’t sleep. I’m thinking of
you all. I wanted to take advantage of the last glimmers of a
dying candle to talk a bit with you.

“‘Bonne chance. Au revoir.

“Yours Nalni.”

“P.S. August 23, 17 hrs. Iam leaving Camp I to go down to
Base Camp after having waited in vain for some sign from you.
The wind is howling more fiercely than ever.”

* * * * *

On August 24 we were back at Base Camp. Here we found
the sun once more, and the earth, and as much tea as we wanted,
and the comfort of the big tent, and even our appetites. It was
decidedly good to be alive! But we should have to begin all
over again, for in this dreadful game of snakes and ladders we
had come back to our starting-point. After moving up so care-
fully, step by step, Camp I, Camp II, Camp ITI, till we were
within an ace of success, we had been brutally halted and flung
back. Our efforts now seemed useless, our confidence and
enthusiasm of no account.

In four or five days the coolies would be arriving: we hadn’t
even a week left. Yet, little as it was, it was still enough to
launch a final attack. The weather was fine, and we had just
enough fuel for one final attempt. It was the very last chance,
and we had to seize it.

The M.O. had made a thorough estimate of the damage.
Ang Tharkay was laid out with broken ribs, and contusions.
Michel was also out of action, for though his spine was luckily
not damaged, there could be no question of his making the
slightest effort. Although not so badly hurt as they were, I was
still in a pretty poor way. I could neither bend down nor get up
after lying down. When I breathed I felt as though a knife had
been stuck into my ribs. All the same, I had made my decision.
I could walk, and this, after all, was the main thing; so I would
go with Claude and Pierre. I still cherished a faint hope of
reaching the summit with them. But above all—and it was this
that had really decided me—I felt absolutely incapable of letting
Claude and Pierre go alone, on this last lap of our adventure,
while I sat about far below. If I suffered agonies well that Just

154

Disappearance of Camp III

couldn’t be helped. I would go with them, it was my plain duty
as leader of the expedition. But if at any moment I saw that I
should handicap their chances of success, then I would drop out.
The victory of the team, the collective triumph, is what counts
above everything in Himalayan expeditions. I would know how
to accept my disappointment. That, too, was my duty.

* * * * *

We left Base Camp in the early morning of August 25 in bril-
liant sunshine accompanied by four Sherpas: Pa Norbu, Gyald-
zen, Ang Phuter, and Pemba Norbu. Ang Tharkay and Kami,
who were showing the first symptoms of pneumonia, Nalni, due
to go back the following day as his leave was up, and Michel
and Jean all watched us go with melancholy resignation. If he
were up to it Michel would come and meet us with Jean, who
planned to get up to Camp II in order to give immediate atten-
tion in the event of accident or frost-bite.

“Now, mind, in four days you are to bring me a stone from
the summit,” Michel called out after us. On the chaos of the
moraine I thought sadly of those we had left behind. They had
the same right as we had to continue the struggle, and win the
fruits of their labours, the object of their desires. They had
worked whole-heartedly with all their might, and they had
wished for the summit every bit as much as we had.

Our objective was to make Camp II in the day—3,700 feet
in one go—it was a lot, particularly for me, for I found every
step an effort. Claude and Pierre had settled on this plan, with
a view to saving time, and they were quite right. Half-way up
to Camp I the others had already out-distanced me. Far ahead
on the great snow and rock slope leading to the Col of Good
Hope, I could see two little black specks climbing briskly. How-
ever should I succeed in keeping up with them to the end, even
with the best will in the world? I gritted my teeth and called up
every ounce of energy. When I caught up with them at Camp
I, I threw myself down on the platform of stones round the tents.
Pierre took off my crampons, and Claude brought me a cup of
pemmican. Half an hour later we set out for Camp II. Claude,
Pierre, and the Sherpas were going far too quick; soon I was
alone with Ang Phuter. A violent hail-storm caught us right on

155

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

the Tower. I thought this was a bit much. I dragged along
more and more, and Ang Phuter looked at me with large, com-
passionate eyes—he must have been wondering why on earth I
had got myself into such a situation. So did I. But I was deter-
mined to go on until I came to the end of my strength. To reach
Camp II before nightfall was all that I asked of my body.
Gritting my teeth, I fought for each foot of the mountain. The
hail stopped when we came to the foot of the great snow-slope,
and I clung to the fixed rope. Farther on, before launching out
on the long traverse, I looked anxiously round. Were the slopes
firm? Might they not carry us away? I was obsessed by fear of
another avalanche. At last, dead beat, I reached Camp II.

“God, I’ve been through it. I’ve never known such torture
since I started climbing,”’ I said to Claude and Pierre. They
took pity on my exhaustion, and helped me off with my things.
Then the rest, the comfort of a sleeping-bag, a good dinner, and
the warmth of friendship renewed my strength and courage.
Before turning in, Claude and Pierre came to me in my tent.

“Bernard,” said Claude, “we admire your pluck and your
stubbornness. But in your present condition do you really think
you can carry on?”

‘As long as I don’t hold you up more than I have done, I'll
keep on. But I swear that when I consider I am compromising
your chances I will give up. Till then I shall carry on. I intend
to go with you as far as Camp III. I quite realise I may not be
able to get to the top, but at least I shall be with the Sherpas, to
support you. I long to share the last hours of the climb with
you.”

“Very well, but don’t put that face on. It makes you look
quite spiteful,’ replied Claude.

“You're right. I’m letting myself go, and I oughtn’t to. But
I’m sure you realise I don’t like feeling below par. Blast that
avalanche!”

I looked straight at Claude and Pierre, and tried to smile;
they warmly grasped my outstretched hands.

Next morning the weather was very bad. These Himalayan
changes were enough to drive one crazy. Yesterday it had been
so fine. Now the tents were shaking beneath the squalls, and
the ground-sheet was lifted up by the wind. Hail beat on the

156

Disappearance of Camp II

canvas, and once more mist enveloped the mountain. However,
it was not very thick, and we hadn’t given up all hope of making
Camp III during the day. We should have to wait and see. If
the following day showed a brilliant sun shining in a cloudless
sky, then we should bitterly regret not being in position. Three
hours later the mist seemed to be clearing, and at ten-thirty we
left camp.

Pierre and Claude made the track. After an hour it began to
snow and we were stopped by the mist, just about fifty yards
from the spot at which the avalanche had started. I was hor-
ribly afraid. Montherlant makes one of his heroes say: “TI like
fear.’? Well I don’t, not at all. I find no charm in it whatever:
no doubt because I have not the soul of a hero. And I think it
was the same with Claude and Pierre, only they didn’t say so.
Sitting on the snow, they were looking up towards the summit,
and trying not to look at the tracks of the avalanche. I broke
the silence: “I think we should go down again. We can’t see
more than fifty yards. In this pea-soup we shall never find our
way to Camp III. It would be stupid to continue. If we are
going to wander about for hours, then I’m against it. Our ex-
perience of coming down the other day is enough. Don’t you
agree?”

No answer. No doubt Claude and Pierre hoped that the mist
would lift. Perhaps my suggestion was prompted by fear and
physical weakness. Was I being too prudent, too fearful?

“Well, let’s wait,” I said philosophically. “It’s such a lovely
place!”

It was true that it was no longer snowing, but the mist was still
just as thick. Five minutes went by, a quarter of an hour, half
anhour...

“Well, are you still for going on? We’re getting frozen here.
I suggest we go back to Camp II, even if we have to start again
if the weather improves.”

PRE atcean

Finally, the others decided to turn back, but I could see they
did so unwillingly. When at one o’clock we got back to Camp II
it began to snow.

“T think we were right to turn back,” admitted Pierre. But
Claude wasn’t convinced. She sulked, sure that the mist was

157

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

only temporary and that the sun would soon come out. And in
fact it did appear, but not until five o’clock. We had lost all that
we had gained the day before. Below, in the valley, the coolies
would be getting near to Base Camp.

* * * * *

At 7 a.m. on August 27 the weather was fair. We decided to
set out.

“Shall we take a tent? It would allow the Sherpas to remain
in support at Camp III, and one of them might even come
with us to the top. They deserve this treat; without them we
shouldn’t be here. What d’you think?”

“I quite agree,” replied Pierre, ‘you know how much I think
of them.”

“Good idea,”’ added Claude. ‘‘But as we were already rather
short of food on August 23, we’ll have to take extra provisions.”

“And tell the Sherpas to bring their sleeping-bags,”’ added
Pierre.

By the time we had got ready, made up our sacks and struck
one of the tents it was nine o’clock before we were away. In the
Himalaya one proceeds at a snail’s pace. Once again it was
Pierre and Claude who gallantly made the track. It was hard
work: the layer of powder snow which had fallen the day before
covered a hard crust through which we broke and sank in up to
our knees.

At midday my two friends and three Sherpas reached the old
temporary Camp III at 20,200 feet which Ang Tharkay, Pemba
Norbu, Michel, and I had established on August 11. I arrived
soon after with Ang Phuter, who accompanied me faithfully the
whole time. Claude and Pierre handed us food. The sky was
overcast, but happily there was hardly any mist. Suddenly a
cloud let fly at us with a regular packet of hail. However, Nun
had accustomed us to this sort of joke, and we scarcely paid any
attention. Philosophically chewing a bit of ham which didn’t go
down very well, so dry were our throats, we listened to the song
of the hailstones as they pattered on our cagoules. But this was
only a passing unpleasantness. The sun would shine again.

At one o’clock we started off once more. The snow was even
thicker on the great sloping plane leading to Camp III, and this

158

Disappearance of Camp III

made the going very exhausting. Yet the others seemed to fly
along; Ang Phuter and I were soon out-distanced. Claude and
Pierre were in amazing form. Next day, weather permitting,
Nun could not possibly escape them—in spite of the wretchedly
deep snow, so rotten and treacherous, and in spite of the steep-
ness of the great face which was now visible, for the hail had
stopped.

I was far behind, and I was in difficulties. My strength was
gradually giving out. Every fifty yards I collapsed on the snow
to get my breath. I was at the end of my tether. My ribs were
causing me agony, my legs were shaking, my breath came in
gasps, the pulses in my temples were hammering, and my heart
knocked. What torture!

Pride was now powerless. I was absolutely worn out. “Not
quite the form for the leader of an expedition,” Ang Phuter must
have been saying to himself.

Come on, show some spirit. Gamp III must be reached at all
costs! I looked at my watch: three o’clock. The tents ought not
to be far off. Three-thirty. The slope seemed to be endless. But
I think more likely it was I who was making scarcely any ad-
vance at all. At four o’clock I could still see no sign. The others
had disappeared behind a hump. Abruptly the feeling of loneli-
ness overwhelmed me, and yet again I sat down hopelessly in
the snow.

I would never reach the summit. I was finished. At my pre-
sent speed I should delay Claude and Pierre. I should have to
resign myself. But to-morrow, after a night’s rest, I should feel
stronger again—should I then find the strength of mind to thrust
away a hope that insisted on rising up more persistently than
ever?

When at last I came up with the others and their Sherpas I
could not believe my eyes: Camp III had disappeared!

It had been swept away by an avalanche. Hundreds of tons
of seracs had crushed our tents and buried provisions, equip-
ment, personal belongings, cameras, films, refills for the cine-
camera, cooking-stoves, and above all our precious cylinder of
Calor gas.

Claude, Pierre, and the Sherpas were searching over a wide
area all hummocky with enormous blocks of ice; they probed the

159

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

fresh snow with their axes in an attempt to find some remains,
But it was no good: there was nothing to be seen; not the slight-
est clue, not the smallest trace. I was dumbfounded, and I let
myself sink down on the snow, as much from hopelessness as
from exhaustion.

With my elbows on my knees and my head in my hands, I
tried to take in the situation. Our hopes were quenched. A few
days ago we had narrowly missed being buried in an avalanche
towards which fate had drawn us, so that we should escape this
other avalanche which would have been fatal. If, on August 23,
we had still been up at Camp III...

Wasn’t this second catastrophe a warning from heaven? I
wanted to give it all up; I wanted to give the Sherpas the order
to go down immediately without even asking Claude and Pierre
for their opinions; I wanted to get away as fast as I possibly
could myself. The Himalaya, which for years I had so longed
for, I now loathed. It was madness to pit ourselves against
them.

Lifting my head, I followed the track of the avalanche. Why
on earth shouldn’t that mass of half-fallen seracs, hanging over
our heads like the sword of Damocles, barely a hundred yards
away, come crashing down as well? And this was the only pos-
sible place for our camp!

I was most horribly afraid. Vivid in my mind was August 23:
the start of the avalanche, the interminable moments when I
hung between life and death, the miraculous slowing down and
stopping of the vast mass of snow; and I seemed to be looking
again at Ang Tharkay as he yelled, “Sahib! Sahib!” and spat
blood while he clawed at the snow which covered Michel’s head.
I was responsible for the others, and I certainly would not run
that particular risk again. I found other reasons to back up my
decision. We only had a two-man tent for three or four people
—and though we might manage at a pinch, since we had sleep-
ing-bags, there was probably not enough food; and worst of all,
no Calor gas, no stove; so we couldn’t melt snow for our drink.
This was extremely serious, for dehydration is one of the causes
of frost-bite.

What would become of us if a storm broke and we had to stay
put where we were? No, clearly: we must now go back down to

160

gan, Bernard Pierre, Michel Desorbay,

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~~
8
2
nS
1s
2
s
&
Zz

Disappearance of Camp IIT

Camp II and come up again to-morrow with an extra tent, pro-
visions, a stove, and the last container of Calor gas. Were we
coming up again to launch a final assault? Were the Himalaya,
which a moment ago I’d been loathing, once more casting their
spell on me?

Pierre and Claude gave up their fruitless search and sat down
exhausted beside me, while the Sherpas got on with pitching the
tent. Claude was the first to break silence.

“Bernard,” she said gravely, “‘we must make a decision.”

I didn’t say anything, but I looked at them, and in their eyes
I could read stern resolve. I guessed what they were about to
say. And sure enough, Pierre said abruptly:

“T want permission to stay.”

“So do I,”’ said Claude in the same tone of voice.

“But you’re quite crazy! It would be suicide.”

““Those seracs won’t fall,”” replied Pierre roundly.

“‘Aren’t two avalanches enough for you?”

Then we all let fly. We threw self-control to the winds and
swore at each other and told each other all sorts of home-truths.
The Sherpas were highly embarrassed, and bustled about the
tent, pretending not to hear. The storm lasted ten minutes, and
then stopped as suddenly as it had started: we had spoken our
minds. I started putting my point of view quietly to the others,
but their resolution was so apparent in their answers that I
began to waver. Supposing it were fine next day, how bitterly
I'd regret my decision! And the others would never forgive me.
They were in grand physical trim, and as the avalanche had
hardly touched them, their morale had barely suffered. They
might have reasoned differently if they had had my experience,
and I knew that my judgment was strongly coloured both by my
exhaustion and by the memory of that dreadful day.

I glanced at the sky: it looked very promising. To the south,
over towards the Zaskar—an atmospheric nerve centre—there
were scarcely any clouds: a good sign. To-morrow could be D
day. There was a long silence. Then Claude and Pierre re-
turned to the attack.

“Bernard, we must stay. If we go down we shall certainly
never come up again.”

“Never come up again”—the words galvanised me. All the

L 161

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

effort of the past twenty-seven days—indeed, all the effort of a
year—to get so near and then give up. No, it just wasn’t pos-
sible. It began to look as if the others were right after all. All
the same, I found it incredibly hard to make the decision; and
all the various possibilities went round and round in my head.

[f a storm came on, what would happen to us in such a pre-
carious position? Jf we went down we should lose a day. Jf it
were fine to-morrow I should always regret it, and they would
always reproach me. Jf it were to snow the day after, our last
hope would be gone for ever. Jf...

“Bernard, make up your mind,” said Claude. “You're the
leader.”

I still couldn’t answer, and we all looked down for fear of
meeting each other’s eyes. Then suddenly I burst out:

“Very well, let’s stay! We’ve got to take some risks. But I am
going to share those risks. I’m going to stay, too. If there’s
trouble, I want to be with you.”

The Sherpas were preparing to go down; only our faithful
Pemba was to stay on with the sahibs. As we moved towards
the tent I took Pierre and Claude by the arm:

“Do forgive me, I was terribly upset. But really it was very
hard to decide. I’m sure you understand.”

And indeed they did. We shall all remember our words at
21,000 feet, which in fact helped to cement our friendship.

The storm in my heart had abated too. I felt like a pilot who,
after braving the tempest, comes into harbour on a calm sea. |
felt an extraordinary serenity, matched by the serenity of the
marvellous Himalayan evening. I searched the horizon. The
sky was a bluey mauve, practically flawless, with only a few
small, scattered clouds. There was no breath of wind, the air
was absolutely still. The summit cone of Nun turned purple in
the light of the setting sun. ;

To-morrow would be the summit day. I was certain of it
now. But I realised also that in my present state of exhaustion
I would be going no farther. What rest would I get from a cold,
uncomfortable night with four in a tent meant for two? There
was very little food, and practically nothing to drink. I knew
that very soon I should have to give up my own chance. But I
knew too, that thanks to Claude and Pierre, Nun would be ours.

162

CHAPTER X

“AND NOW WE CAN BEHOLD THE WAYS THAT
LEAD TO THE GODS’ }

WE awoke on August 28 at five-thirty, with mumblings and
grumblings all round. Half an hour later we still hadn’t stirred.
It was a fearful struggle to force ourselves out of our heavy,
drugged sleep. We were far from happy. Our heads were
heavy, our mouths hot, and we felt sick from want of food.
Pierre was the first to make an effort. He sat up, not without
difficulty, for we were packed like sardines.

‘‘What sort of weather, little brother?’’ Pierre asked Pemba,
who was near the opening of the tent.

Pemba stuck his head out and took a good look, and a rush of
icy air came into the tent. “Little brother” shut the flap
leisurely:

“Fine weather, O precious being!”

Pierre made a dive for the entrance, opened the zip-fastener
and put his head out.

“Magnificent weather! Nun’s in the bag!”

In an attempt to keep warm (it had frozen inside the tent) we
had slept in all our clothes, so we only had our boots to pull on.
Putting on our gaiters was an endless job, for our movements
were so slow and clumsy. We moved about mechanically,
numbed by the cold, dulled by soporifics, weak from want of food.

We had slept very badly, squeezed like sardines into our
minute tent. Our supper the night before had consisted simply
of a slice of ham, a small piece of pain d’épice, and a few lumps of
sugar, the whole washed down with acid pineapple juice, which
burned our throats and sun-parched lips. We each had two
mouthfuls of grog. Just like Charlie Chaplin in City Lights, our
excellent Pemba had discovered at the bottom of his pockets a
candle and a flask of neat alcohol. Patiently he had melted
snow in an empty tin and added the spirit. He looked as cakm
as if he’d been at Base Camp—it came so naturally to him to

1 From an Indian poem dedicated to the goddesses of the mountains.

163

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

have to do things for others; it was part of his nature as, in-
deed, it is part of all Sherpas’ nature.

Breakfast was scanty too, for we had to keep some provisions
in reserve. Fresh stocks would come up, but only later in the
morning, from Camp II. The Sherpas would also bring a tent.
Ang Phuter, Pa Norbu, and Gyaldzen would thus form a sup-
port party while we were making our attempt on the summit.

By way of breakfast we chewed oat-flakes, which obstinately
remained in our mouths. Pierre opened a tin of fruit juice which
he had attempted to warm a little by holding it between his legs.
Ice crystals floated on top. ‘“T'wo mouthfuls each,” he enjoined.
We made faces as we drank. It stung horribly.

What an utterly ridiculous situation into which we had got
ourselves of our own free will!

“And we do all this out of love of the mountains!” I ex-
claimed. “It isn’t really love any more, it’s madness. Really, it’s
laughable.”

We had to wait for the sun now before starting, for it was still
too cold. We sucked a little oxygen to give us strength, but we
should have done better to have brought food instead of this
cylinder; or even better, a stove and a gas container.

““What’s the time?”’ asked Pierre.

“‘Seven-fifteen.”’

“Already? ... Never mind about the sun. We must push
off, or we'll be too late.”

"OC. K.”

One after the other we left the tent, which now seemed a most
desirable haven. Heavens, what asky! Notasingle cloud. Not
even over the Zaskar, which for weeks past had sent over snow,
mist, and storm in our direction. In the distance Nanga Parbat
and the giants of the Karakoram, dominated by Ka, rose up
more magnificent, more dazzling than ever, standing out un-
believably clear in the morning light. It was the day of all days
for our final assault. The apparent madness of Claude and
Pierre had contained a good deal of wisdom, after all.

We were still imprisoned in shadow, and the cold was cruel
and biting. In a few minutes my feet were icy, while Claude,
looking very pale, clapped her hands to warm herself, and
Pemba shivered. Only Pierre seemed at ease.

164

*‘And now we can behold the ways that lead to the gods”

The tent was taken down and folded, and Pemba put it in
his sack. We might perhaps have to bivouac; we did not know
what difficulties lay ahead, and there was another 2,300 feet to
climb. The year before on Salcantay we had been thankful for
one, for we had been benighted on the way down and, thanks to
that scrap of canvas, had spent fifteen hours ‘“‘comfortably” in
a crevasse at 20,000 feet.

I also took my cine-camera. Alas, I had only a few yards of
film in it, and the refills had disappeared with Camp III, buried
with all our cameras for ever beneath the avalanche, only a few
hundred feet away.

We roped up: Pierre and Claude, Pemba and myself. At
seven-thirty exactly we set off. The die was cast. Nun would be
conquered, now, or we should be defeated, and this time there
would be no second chance. The dark mass of our adversary
rose before us, with only the summit cone lit up. The sun was
on our right, and we would go to meet it. In any case it was not
possible to make a frontal attack, for the face was barred by that
same band of threatening seracs from which the avalanche had
crashed down on our camp. We had, therefore, to make a wide
detour, going up a combe which would take us up to a shoulder
on our right; from there we should have to slant over to the left,
and then up a slope which would finally bring us on to the
face.

Pierre made the track, sinking in up to the knees, and both
ropes made extremely slow progress. There was no sound but
the crunch of our steps and our breath, which came in gasps:
it was gruelling work. We crossed the bergschrund, and climbed
up a steep wall on the farther side. Pierre came out on to the
shoulder, which was, in reality, the last bastion of the south face
and overlooked 6,000 feet of appalling precipices. I looked at
my altimeter and my watch: 21,400 feet, eight-thirty. About
three hundred and fifty feet an hour—not much. On the other
hand, we were now in the sun, and about time too. Claude
admitted that she hadn’t thought she could make it. Pemba
complained of the cold, and Pierre banged his chest. I was feel-
ing pretty far gone: I had hardly any sensation in my feet, even
though I had never stopped waggling my toes while I was climb-
ing. My right hand was numb, and the fingers hard as wood.

165

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

“I don’t like the look of it,” said Pierre, taking my hand. “I'll
rub it.”

Pemba took advantage of the halt to remove my boots and
massage my feet energetically. They were all worried, and so
was I. It was no state to be in, barely an hour after the start.

We set off again at eight-forty-five. The slope up to the face
became steeper, and soon we were halted by an enormous cre-
vasse. Fortunately two knife-edge ribs of ice offered a way
across; Pierre, who was in the lead, advanced cautiously, test-
ing every step with his axe like a blind man. When he reached
the far side, he called us to come over, which took some time,
for we had to belay each other across.

After this the snow became harder and bore our weight bet-
ter, so we were able to increase our pace. But with me things
were going from bad to worse. Life had partially returned to
my hand, but my feet were numb again. All the same, I carried
on somehow, making a desperate effort to stick it out. But my
strength gradually ebbed. I felt that everything was giving way
—both my physical strength and my morale—and that I had
used up all my reserves. And the cold watches out for its
defenceless prey.

At ten o’clock we stopped: 21,800 feet. It was another 1,600
feet to the top, and that was too much for me. I should never
make it.

They took off my boots again; there was no life in my feet.
Later, Pierre wrote: ‘(Pemba and I rubbed a long time, but it
was no good. It was a ghastly sensation, for I seemed to be rub-
bing the feet of a corpse... . Bernard’s determination was no
longer any help: he just wasn’t in a fit state to go on.”

If I insisted on going on I would certainly be badly frost-
bitten: my toes, white and numb and hard as wood, left me in
no doubt on that point. I looked at the summit which I had
longed for so ardently. Would I allow myself to be bewitched?
No! I love the mountains, I have loved them profoundly ever
since that day in 1945 on the Matterhorn when I first set foot
on them. But not for the world would I deliberately sacrifice
even one toe.

It would be sheer madness to go on. I could conceivably have
done so by giving myself the artificial stimulus of drugs; I was

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‘And now we can behold the ways that lead to the gods”

carrying some tablets of orthédrine and maxiton. But it wouldn’t
do to use them. The return to reality would be too dearly
bought. Common sense and duty alike insisted that I give up:
and I had promised myself to do so as soon as I considered that
I was compromising the others’ success.

“Pierre, Claude, this is where I turn back!” Holding back
my tears with difficulty, I gave them the reasons for my deci-
sion. Pemba would stay with me to help me down.

“Good luck!’ Even in my disappointment I was happy, for
I knew that in a few hours Nun would at last be ours. They
embraced me, concealing their feelings with difficulty. Now
our chance of success lay entirely in their hands.

My friends went on their way, and I filmed them as they
started up, and kept them in the sights as they carved out “‘the
way to the Gods’. And I thought that fate had chosen well in
sparing our two best climbers from the avalanche. The cine-
camera stopped: the spool was finished—just like myself. Then
with a gesture of resignation I let my arms fall, and slowly looked
up at the cone of snow and ice lost in the azure sky: the summit
to which I was now saying good-bye.

That day I took the first steps in the practice of a virtue for
which I am but poorly equipped: renunciation.

* * * * *

My nerves went to pieces, and I let myself sink down and
cried bitter tears. Pemba sat down beside me; taking my hand
and comforting me as one comforts a child, murmuring soothing
words which J did not understand. I thanked him with a smile.
He knew no English, I knew no Tibetan, and the only language
we could speak was that of the heart, in which we could speak
to each other plainly.

An hour and a quarter later we were back at the site of Camp
III. The tent was put up at once and we dived into it. Pemba
hurried to take my boots off and began to rub for all he was
worth. It was only at the end of an hour that the circulation
returned. This time I was able to feel my toes; I even yelled
when Pemba pressed them in his burning hands. Now that all
danger of frost-bite was over, an irrational fear possessed me,
and I felt like taking to my heels. Wouldn’t those seracs break

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A Mountain Called Nun Kun

off and fall on the tent? After all, they’d done so once already.
But this was ridiculous. There was no room for cowardice. I
just had to stay where I was until Claude and Pierre returned.
The Sherpas would soon be coming up from Camp II, and we
must all stay here in support, for the summit party might need
us.
I stuck my head out of the tent. On the immense sunlit face of
Nun two little black specks were moving like flies on a wall.

* * * * *

The final phase of the ascent is best described in Pierre’s own
words. Here they are:

“The snow slope ran up at an easy angle at first and then
continued very steeply to two rocks about a third of the way
up. Above the slope on the right there towered a high rock step,
on the left was the west ridge. The snow was foul—crust over
unconsolidated powder snow. I had often ploughed through
this kind of stuff before, going full steam ahead with a certain
satisfaction. But on the Nordend, on the Taschhorn, and else-
where I’d been pretty sure the snow was sound. Here I was
envisaging an avalanche at every step. Those two rocks seemed
almost within reach. Yet, although we went as fast as we could,
they never seemed to get any nearer. It was a tremendous relief
to reach them at last, after a pretty strenuous effort. That was
one stage over, and at least this perch wouldn’t give way be-
neath us.

“Directly below us, at Camp III, Bernard and Pemba were
putting up the tent. Farther off, among the seracs a party was
coming up—the three Sherpas whom we had sent down the
evening before, and who were now bringing up equipment and
provisions. Probably Jean and Michel were struggling up the
slopes of the great Tower. I was pretty sure that in spite of their
bruises they meant to come up in support.”

Meanwhile I was watching the two black dots leave their
perch and start up the slope. I could guess their mode of pro-
gress as they slowly went up, knee-deep in snow—first breaking
the snow crust, still hard from the night frost; then searching
about for something solid on which their crampons could get a
hold; driving their ice-axes deep in at every step.

168

A
B

c
D

Original Camp Il destroyed by the avalanche

The Camp established on August 27, the evening before
the final assault

Arrows giving the direction taken by the avalanche of seracs

21,800 Fr ~The point at which Pemba Norbu and Bernard Pierre
turned back

West Ridge

ROUTE FROM CAMP IT TO THE SUMMIT

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

They were now well in the middle of the face, and behind
them a white frothy furrow made a long diagonal. Some 1,300
feet below was the bar of seracs which threatened our tent;
should the climbers be carried away by an avalanche, it was
there that they would land up. I shivered at the thought. Now
for Pierre again:

“Above us the slope eased slightly, then steepened again to an
angle which it was hard to estimate. Claude wanted to go
straight up so as to avoid cutting across the slope; I favoured
traversing left to the west ridge before it became too steep.
Neither course was particularly attractive. We found ourselves
glancing downwards, towards security. Was Nun worth risking
our lives on wind-slab? We must advance, somchow.”’

(Their voices carried down quite startlingly. I heard Claude
say calmly to Pierre:

“Shall we go on?”

“Yes, let’s.’’)

“Claude attacked the horrible snow of the face. The going
was hard, even for the second man. Claude climbed straight
up. She thrust her ice-axe in above her and pulled herself up
from one foot to the other. But soon she came to an area of
wind-slab which made her take a slanting line to the left. This
wind-slab formed long festoons starting from the west ridge and
running down obliquely. Afraid that they would not bear our
weight, we went along beneath them, traversing more and more
horizontally. Often neither crampons nor ice-axe found firm
snow, and we no longer dared make any violent effort for fear
of breaking through a slab; we had to slide forward patiently,
step by step, on powder snow which did not consolidate. The
sun beat full down on the fragile mass which was disintegrating
further every minute.”

I could still hear their words and shared their anxiety.

“Belay me well while I traverse across this slab,” Claude said
to Pierre. “I’m afraid of its giving way.”

My eyes were riveted to the face where the fate of Nun and of
our party hung in the balance. Ang Phuter, Pa Norbu, and
Gyaldzen had just come up. I told Gyaldzen, who understands
a little English, to put up the second tent, unpack the rucksacks,
and wait. Pemba made straight for the cylinder of Calor gas, lit

170

“And now we can behold the ways that lead to the gods”’

the burner, and filled a saucepan with snow. The tea he pre-
pared was to be our first hot drink since the morning before.

The party on the face still progressed slowly. Minute by
minute they gained ground and drew nearer to the west ridge,
which spelled salvation for them. It had a huge cornice, a mass
of snow accumulated by the wind on the very crest of the ridge
curled over into space. All danger was not yet over, the cor-
nices might give way beneath the weight of the climbers. But
on the whole there was less risk here than on the face with the
snow liable to avalanche at any minute. How right they had
been not to go straight up in a direct line to the summit.

Pierre’s narrative continues:

‘Near the ridge the slope bulged out. Fortunately we found
a band of hard snow along which Claude made her way up-
wards into the sky with small, careful steps. Her axe gleamed as
she thrust it over the crest of the ridge. At once our visions of
avalanches vanished. We laughed when we found ourselves on
an easy ridge leading straight up to the summit. Twelve-thirty
. .. Nun was ours!”

(The Sherpas abandoned their usual reserve and gave tongue
with joyous yodels. The two climbers stopped a minute as if they
had heard.)

“T took off my sack and began making the track with great
zest. The snow was once more unstable. On the right of the
crest it had been rotted through by the sun; on the left it was
powdery and loose; beneath the actual crest of the ridge all was
rotten. I have always liked snow, and these bad snow condi-
tions fascinated me. There was no kicking steps, no swing of the
ice-axe. But as my foot sank in I tried to estimate the cohesion
of the snow—whether powder or coarse-grained crystals—to
judge just how far it would support my weight and when it
would give way. It seemed to me that I developed a sixth sense
through my heavy boots; a sense capable of judging an ever-
changing element. Balance now came into play, there must be
no jerk, no sudden twist of the boot as one transferred one’s
weight from one foot to the other. One also had to move
rhythmically so as to climb quickly and without fatigue. A
delicate rhythm which must be adapted to the changing snow.
... Once this rhythm and balance was found, I enjoyed letting

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A Mountain Called Nun Kun

my legs carry me along, leaving my mind free to dream, my eyes
full of the brilliance of the scene.

““Happily there were neither seracs nor crevasses barring the
ridge, and we made height much more rapidly than on the
avalanchy face.”

(At two-thirty a light mist blew up, but it was transitory and
thin—fortunately nothing like the thick fog of the previous days.
It swirled round the face and gradually floated upward. The
two small black specks disappeared. How long the minutes
seemed !)

““On the ridge, which had now become very steep, the snow
had collected in drifts through which it was gruelling work mak-
ing tracks. Claude insisted that we should share the work by
changing the lead at each rope’s length. She seemed to consider
it all in the day’s work that she should make the track, and when-
ever it was my turn to wait my eyes were fixed on the tiny figure
in sky blue, poised on the immensity of the ridge. From where
did she draw the vitality to battle through such exhausting snow
at 23,000 feet and more?”’

(Again and again I came out of the tent. But Nun was
still cloaked in her veil of mist. Nothing but silence and
mystery.)

“In the mist we were able to make out some rocks, flanking
the ridge, which we passed one by one. Then we came out on
to asnow dome. A rock tower with a great beak appeared on a
level with us. It still looked a long way. But we were deceived
by the mist, for in a moment we were at the foot of the tower.

** *Go ahead, Claude.’

** “No, you deserve to be first on top.’

“* “And what about you?’

“Claude went ahead, and was hidden for an instant. The
rope ran out, then stopped. I felt a wave of joy spread over me
—she must have reached the top. But no, her clear voice rang
out:

“* “Come along, the last few yards are wide enough for us to
go together.’

‘‘With our eyes fixed on the end of the little snow crest run-
ning up into the sky, we went forward arm in arm, slowly, the
better to savour our enormous joy.

172

*‘And now we can behold the ways that lead to the gods”’

‘All our hopes and efforts—last year’s attempt, this year’s
progress and disappointments—all now took shape, all were
now crowned, on this minute dome of snow upon which we sat,
so gloriously happy. We forgot fatigue and thirst, even the dan-
gers of the descent. We passed into an inexpressible and irra-
tional ecstasy, in harmony with the reddish mists and the dif-
fused light of the sun. But gradually this extraordinary happi-
ness fell into place. To the celestial visions succeeded the im-
ages of certain faces. First that of my wife. Two months ago,
when I had thought it would not be possible for me to join the
expedition, she had cried in disappointment! To-day was her
birthday—what a present for her! Then came my old friend
Edouard Pidoux, the companion of so many of my wanderings,
who had done so much to make a mountaineer of me—and a
man. Then my comrades, the French and the Sherpas, strung
out on the flanks of the mountain all waiting confidently for our
success. There would be joy for all these friends as well as for
myself. Claude alone was there before me, but her tenacity and
her gentleness reminded me of all those others, and conjured up
all these friends before my eyes. For three years I had wandered
over the mountains by myself, over face and ridge, and made
many splendid expeditions in this marvellous country. But my
pleasure had been limited because I had had no companion
with whom to share the joy either of climbing or of contempla-
tion. But now I had friends. Perhaps I had looked upon the
mountains as a game, a field for exploits, or even an ivory tower.
But in them now I had found the joys of friendship.

“And we mustn’t forget to take a stone from the top for
Michel.”

* * * * *

At four-thirty a cry from one of the Sherpas broke the silence.
“Sahib! Sahib!”

I rushed outside the tent. The mist which had hidden the
mountain for the past two hours was rather theatrically break-
ing up. Like a vision the summit of Nun appeared, then the
break extended. Anxiously we looked for signs of life. Nothing.
... At four-forty there was some excitement among the Sher-
pas. They pointed to the dizzy heights of the west ridge. Two

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A Mountain Called Nun Kun

barely visible black specks were majestically descending in the
steps which they had cut to victory. We had conquered Nun!

Suddenly a great wave of happiness came over me and made
me tremble with emotion. I was spellbound by the vision, and
saw it as a symbol. Those two black specks, lost in a sea of
white, were the focal point of a dream which we had pursued
for years. Preparation, worries and set-backs, hopes and dis-
appointments, hardships and joys, progress and retreat, fears,
anxieties, sufferings, and accidents, all these had not been in
vain. The irresistible passion, the never satisfied urge, the un-
shakable pride, which draws one year after year towards the
summits, had now at last found its fulfilment.

174

GLOSSARY

anorak: wind-proof jacket with hood attached.

aréte; ridge.

belay: to secure the climber to a projection with the rope; the pro-
jection itself.

bergschrund: a large crevasse separating the upper slopes of a glacier
from the steeper ice or rock above.

cagoule: long anorak descending below the knees.

chimney: a narrow vertical gully in rock or ice.

col: pass.

cornice: overhanging mass of snow or ice along a ridge, shaped like
the curling crest of a wave and generally formed by the pre-
vailing wind; an overhanging ledge of rock.

couloir: gully or furrow in a mountain-side; may be of rock, ice, or
snow.

crampons: metal frame with spikes, fitting the soles of the boots, for
use on hard snow or ice.

crevasse: a fissure in a glacier, often of great depth.

gendarme: rock tower or tooth on a ridge.

glissade: to slide down a snow slope, either sitting or standing, using
the ice-axe to control speed and direction.

ice-fall: a much torn and crevassed portion of a glacier caused by a
change of angle or direction in the slope.

karabiner or snap-link: a large metal link with a spring-loaded hinged
opening; can be clipped on to a piton or the rope.

line: a thin rope used for roping down (q.v.).

moraine: long ridge or bank formed of stones and débris carried down
by a glacier.

névé: upper snows which feed the glaciers; patch of old hardened
snow, usually above the permanent snow line.

pitch: section of difficult ice or rock, anything from ro to 120 feet in
length.

piton: metal spike with a hole in the head (sometimes with a ring
attached) for driving into cracks in the rock; a long, thin type is
used for ice.

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A Mountain Called Nun Kun

rappel or rope-down: system of descending steep pitches by means of a
rope doubled round a projection. | Usually the thin rope
known as line is used.

rognon: large hummock of rock protruding through a glacier.

rope: attaches members of a party together; a party may be referred
to as “a rope.”

scree: slope of small loose stones.

serac: tower or pinnacle of ice, mainly found in ice-falls.

snow-bridge: a layer of snow bridging a crevasse.

traverse: to cross a slope horizontally; to cross a mountain from one
side to another.

tsampa: roasted and ground barley or other grain.

verglas: thin coating of ice on rock.

176

SHERPA VOCABULARY
(With the corresponding terms in Tibetan)

By Pierre VitToz

It is of interest to compare the Sherpa dialect with the classic
Tibetan from which it derives. In the following pages the classic
Tibetan and the Sherpa terms are given side by side. Classic Tibetan
was very probably spoken ten or twelve centuries ago over the vast
territory (more than 1,500 miles from east to west) occupied by the
Tibetans. This tongue was written as early as the 7th century and is
still the sole written language of the inhabitants, although not
spoken in any part of the country. Classic Tibetan is relatively well
known, and there are dictionaries as well as translations of a number
of works. In the following list I have given the original spelling of
the classic Tibetan words, but the spelling of Sherpa terms—of
which no written example exists, and of which this is a first draft
study—is entirely of my own construction in which I have endea-
voured to compromise between simplicity and accuracy.

List or Worps

I. Current Everyday Terms

Sherpa Tibetan Remarks on the Sherpa terms

acho pu elder brother; also used as a term of
friendship for an older person with-
out any family connection.

no nu younger brother; idtd.

kyermen ch’ung-ma literally: of low birth, wife, woman!
As everyone knows, orientals are not
feminists. Tibetans consider to be
re-born a woman a punishment for
having committed some particularly
serious sin in a previous life.

putsa bu son.

M 177

Sherpa

pumo
kusho
tokpo
ming
Rangpa
changma

shupa }
Shukpa

tsa
lakpa
ch’ ak

kangpa
shap

mik

Rk’ amsang
men
mik-men
ts’at

is’e }
surmo
tak

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

Tibetan

bumo
rje-btsun
grogs
ming
k’angpa
Ichang-ma

Shug-pa

riswa
lagpa
p’yag

rkang-pa
zhabs
mgo

mig
k’ams
sman
mig-sman

ts’ad-pa

Rus
Brag
pyid

Remarks on the Sherpa terms

daughter.

Your Excellency; commonly: sir.

friend.

name.

house.

willow; the least rare Tibetan tree;
thus ‘“‘changma’”’ is often used to
denote leafy trees in general.

Himalayan juniper; a fine tree in low-
lying or sheltered regions; deformed
and stunted specimens are found up
to between 14,500 and 15,000 feet;
much sought-after for fuel.

grass.

hand.

hand. We touch here upon one of the
beauties of Tibetan: most current
terms have a special form for use in
connection with any important per-
sonage. The Sherpas rarely use this
deferential vocabulary, but they
constantly make use of certain terms,
and ‘“‘ch’ak”’ is one of them.

foot.

foot (deferential form).

head.

eye.

health, good health.

medicine.

medicine for the eyes.

fever.

pain, illness.

blood.

to freeze.

178

Sherpa

kangpa p’is
po

popa
poke
sherpa ke
garpo
shémpa
leka

midu

on
du!

sho!

tong!
song!

pil |
chi!

pep

S—

shu!

bor!
Paldik chi!
len

nyo
nyo }
Ser
zer }
la!

Sherpa Vocabulary

Tibetan

bod

bod-pa
bod-skad
(unknown)
rgad-po
gzhon-pa
las

adug
yod
mi-adug
med
adug
shog
tong!
song!

byos
prebs
bzhugs
azhog

shom
len

nyo
zer

lags

Remarks on the Sherpa terms

the foot was frozen.

Tibet. The word ‘‘Tibet” is unknown
in Central Asia.

Tibetan.

Tibetan language.

Sherpa dialect.

old.

young.

work,

there exists, there is.

there is not.

stay, sit down!
come along!
give!

go!

do!

come! go! (very current deferential
form).

stay! please be seated! (cbzd.).

to leave; put down!

to make ready; prepare!

to take.

to buy.

to say.

at your service! Also a syllable de-
noting respect when added to the
end of a phrase. ‘‘Gur nyt du la”
means ‘““There are two tents, sir.”
We called Ang Tharkay ‘‘Acho la’,
which means ‘‘respected elder
brother”!

179

Sherpa
nga
k’yérang
nyirang
Ro
Kong
ngatang
nga }
ngacha
k’ydcha
nyicha
Rocha
K’ongts’o

ta
ga
luk
rama

p’ak

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

Tibetan
nga
k’yod
kyed
de
Kong
nged-chag

nged-chag

k’yod-chag
k’yed-chag
de-dag
Kong

rta
Sga
lug
rama
pag

Remarks on the Sherpa terms

thou, you.

you (deferential form in the singular).

he, she.

he, she, (deferential).

we (inclusive: you and me).

we (exclusive: others and myself, with-
out including you).

you (ordinary plural).

you (deferential form, plural).

they, masculine and feminine.

they, masculine and feminine defer-
ential. The above forms are em-
ployed either as subjects of intran-
sitive verbs or direct objects of a
transitive verb. The indirect object
is formed by adding the suffix “Ja”.
Thus ‘‘nga-la ser!”? means “‘tell me!”.
The genitive form or possessive
adjective is made by adding the
suffix ‘2’. Thus “‘k’o-2 no’, means
“his younger brother’. A curious
rule insists that a transitive verb shall
not be expressed in its simple form,
but with the addition of the suffix
“7”? (basically differing from the pre-
vious case). Thus ‘‘k’o du’ means
“he stays” (intransitive verb); but
“k’o-i ser” means “‘he says’ (trans-
itive verb).

horse, pony.

saddle.

sheep.

goat.

pig.
180

Sherpa
Ry
riong

shik
goa

kyin

teu

prea

balu

tom
tetmo
lak

Va
Rata
diinshak
nyima

dawa
mingma

lakpa
prurbu

pasang
pemba

Sherpa Vocabulary

Tibetan
Ry
ri-bong

shig
dgo-ba

skyin

spre
pyi-ba

dom

dred

glag

k’ra
kwa-ta
bdun-p’ rag
nyima

zZla-ba
mig-dmar

lhag-pa
prurbu

pasang
Spen-pa

Remarks on the Sherpa terms

dog.

hare (literally: mountain donkey, on
account of the ears!),

flea,

Tibetan chamois with small sharp
horns.

ibex (the Himalayan ibex has magnifi-
cent horns and may weigh up to 260
pounds),

monkey.

marmot (a typical example: in Central
Tibetan dialects p -+ y becomes ch;
the Sherpa dialect often follows this
rule, but in this case the pronouncia-
tion has remained near to that of the
classic word).

bear. A Hindustani name; in Tibetan
the Sherpas distinguish between:

black bear of the forests.

brown bear of the pasture lands.

eagle.

small common falcon.

raven.

week.

Sunday, Literally—sun; cf.
Sunday.

Monday, literally—moon.

Tuesday, literally—red eye, i.e., the
planet Mars.

Wednesday, literally—the planet Mer-
cury.

Thursday, literally—the planet Jupiter.

Friday, literally—the planet Venus.

Saturday, literally—the planet Saturn.
The seven above-mentioned stars,

181

Sonntag,

Sherpa

karma
yarka
tonk’a
gunk’a
pitk’a
lo
naning
shening
chik
nyt
sum
zhi

nga

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

Tibetan

skar-ma
dbyar
ston
dgun
dpyid

naning

gchig
gnyis
gsum
bzhi

Inga

Remarks on the Sherpa terms

all considered to be planets of our
earth, have been known since time
immemorial. The fact that they
bear the same relation to the days of
the week in Tibet as they do in
Europe is explained by the link
between the Sanskrit and the Indo-
Aryan tradition. There is no con-
nection between Tibetan and the
Sanskrit family of languages, but
Tibetan culture is directly inherited
from India. Note that “‘dawa”’ also
means month, for the Tibetan
calendar is based on the lunar month,
and each month begins with the new
moon.

star.

summer.

autumn.

winter.

spring.

year.

last year.

the previous year, two years ago.
one.

two.

three.

four. The pronounciation of “four” is

particularly interesting; while in the
central dialects it is always pro-
nounced ‘“‘chee’’, the Sherpas pro-
nounce it like the French “ji” in
common with the western dialects
and with what little is known of the
eastern dialects.

five.

182

Sherpa

tuk

diin

gye

chu
chu-chtk
chu-nyi
chuk-sum
chub-zht
ché-nga
chu-tuk
chub-diin
chib-gye
chur-gu
nyi-shu
Sum-ju
Zhip-shu
ngap-shu
tuk-shu
diin-ju
gye-chu
gup-shu
gya-t’emba
gormo
ser

ngul

cha

pige
Shogu
pecha

ch’é

Sherpa Vocabulary

Tibetan

drug

bdun
brgyad
dgu

bchu
bchu-gchig
bchu-gnyis
bchu-gsum
behu-bzhi
bcho-inga
bchu-drug
bchu-bdun
bcho-brgyad
bchu-dgu
nyi-shu
sum-chu
bzhi-bchu
Inga-bchu
drug-chu
bdun-chu
brgyad-chu
dgu-bchu
brgya
dngul

gser

dngul
Ichags
yige
Shog-bu
dpe

ch’os

Remarks on the Sherpa terms
six,
seven.
eight.
nine.
ten.
eleven.
twelve.
thirteen.
fourteen.
fifteen.
sixteen.
seventeen.
eighteen.
nineteen.
twenty.
thirty.
forty.
fifty.
sixty.
seventy.
eighty.
ninety.
hundred.
rupee.
gold.
silver (metal and money).
iron, steel.
letter, written message.
paper.
book; the word ‘‘kitab”’, derived from
the Arab, is also frequently used.
religion; religious book; book.

Sherpa

base camp

lambar
lambar tangpo
lambar nyiwa
lambar sumba
ek lambar

do lambar

tin lambar
gur

den

malch’e
lak-shup
kang-shup
mikshe

Pakpa

bur

kor

atsa
martel

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

II. Expedition Terms

Tibetan

gur
stan
mal-gos
lag-shubs
rkang-shubs
shel-mig
Vagpa

Remarks on the Sherpa terms

The Sherpas cannot be persuaded to
use a Tibetan word to denote the
geographical headquarters of an
expedition.

high camp.

Camp |.

Camp 2.

Camp 3.

Camp | Hindustani, which the Sher-

Camp 2 : c
Camp 3 pas use readily for counting.

tent.

mattress.

sleeping-bag.

glove.

socks.

goggles.

rope.

corruption of the English “‘boot”.

coat, down jacket (after considerable
reflection upon the origin of this
word, I realised that it, too, was justa
corruption of the English “coat’!)

ice-axe.

hammer. One might think the Sherpas
speak French! They know the
Tibetan word, “‘é’ojung’’, but do not
use it among themselves; they insist
that “‘martel” is purely local; it prob-
ably derives from the two Hindu-
stani words for “to hit” and “to
throw”’.

184

Sherpa

ser

me
Shing
ot

mumbati

kutpa

sabon

porpa
Pali

sang

cha

Solja

Sherpa Vocabulary

Tibetan

ezer

me
Shing

sgron-ma

Sskud-pa

porpa

gri
zang’s

gsol-ja

Remarks on the Sherpa terms

nail. This word might be used for
“piton”, but the Sherpas have be-
come accustomed to use English
words for those items of their equip-
ment which are unknown to Tibet-
ans.

fire.
wood, fire-wood.
light, lamp.

candle. A Hindustani word, candles
are not known in Tibet.

string, thread.

soap. A Hindustani word; it is well
known that Tibetans profess com-
plete ignorance of this by-product of
civilisation, but the Sherpas are
remarkably clean.

cup, bowl.

plate. The word as well as the object
are imported from India; the Tibet-
ans eat out of their ‘‘p’orpa’’.

knife.

saucepan. The beginning of this word
is pronounced in a deep tone; there
are other instances, but the tone
system (Chinese influence) plays but
a small part in the Sherpa dialect.

tea (a word of Chinese origin); one
must distinguish ‘“‘poja”—Tibetan
tea with butter, and “‘cha ngarmo” or
‘‘Lipton cha’’—sweetened tea.

tea (deferential).

185

Sherpa

chema-kara

to
Pukpa
gyat’uk

tsa
tsong
sha
gyuma
chapo

tsamba

chapati
biscur
de

mar
oma
go-nga
ch’ang
arak
dang
Sang nyt
nang
ngamo
k’yong!
Kur sho!
do!

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

Tibetan

kara

Ka-zas
Pug-pa
rgya-tug

is’wa
btsong
sha
rgyu-ma
bya-po
risam-pa

abras

mar

oma

Sgo-nga

ch’ ang

arag

mdang

Sang

gnang

Sang snga-dro

ak’ur shog!
agro

Remarks on the Sherpa terms

literally: sand sugar, castor sugar; in
practice is used for refined white
sugar as opposed to moist or brown
sugar—‘‘guram’’.

food.

soup, porridge; deferential, “‘jam’’.

literally: Chinese soup, broth and
macaroni; used for macaroni.

salt.

onion.

meat.

sausage.

cock.

flour made from roasted grain, gener-
ally barley; mixed raw into tea with
butter, ‘‘tsamba’”’ forms the Tibetan
bread; it can be very insipid, but
with sufficient butter (rancid) and a
little sugar it becomes agreeable and
nourishing.

pancake (Hindustani).

biscuit.

rice.

butter.

milk.

egg.

beer made from barley.

distilled spirit.

yesterday.

to-morrow.

the day after to-morrow.

to-morrow morning.

bring!

walk! let’s go!
186

Sherpa

gyokpo
go

mik to!
Uonga?
yul
tong

rl ngo
kang
kangri
kang ch’en
do
pabong
shalma
sa

chema
chu

ch’'u mik
rong
tokpo

is’o

tse

lartse
gangk’a
parka la
ts’urk’a la
serka

Ka
K’a-ts’up
K’yak

Sherpa Vocabulary

Tibetan

myurdu
dgos

ltos

mt’ ong-gam
pul

grong

Remarks on the Sherpa terms

quick.

I need, it is necessary.
look!

do you see? can you find?
country, district.

village.

III Mountain Terms.

ri ngo
gangs
gangs-ri
gangs-ch’en
rdo

brag

sa
bye-ma.
chu
ch’u-mig
rong
grog-po.
miso

rise

lartse
Sgang
p’arol-du
tsur-du
serka
k’a-ba
k’a-ts’ub
k’yags-pa

mountain, hill.

side or face of a mountain.

ice, hard snow.

glacier, snow mountain.

glacier, glacier river.

stone.

rock.

scree,

earth.

sand,

water, river.

spring.

gorge.

ravine,

lake.

pass.

summit.

summit of a pass.

spur, rib, ridge.

the other side (of a river, glacier, etc.),

this side, on this side of.

crevasse.

snow.

snow-storm.

ice (such as forms in a receptacle, for
instance).

187

Sherpa
Karu
ch’ arpa
mukpa
nyima

lungpa

tang
lamk’a
kyok
parla
marla

ye ngo la
yon ngo la
Sarpo
lamo
kakpo
tdémpo
yakpo
rtsokpa
dewa

Pak ringpo
samba
kangsam
tempo

ch’ ok
chang

shar

nup

dzok!

bop!

ch’empo
ch’ung chung

A Mountain Called Nun Kun

Tibetan

Ka-rud
ch’ arpa
mug-pa
nyima

lungpa

tang
lam

yar
mar
Zyas-su
gyon-du
gzar-ba
sla-ba
dka-ba
mt’o-ba
legs-pa
ngan-pa
bde-ba
rgyans
zam-pa

sra-ba
P'yogs
byang

shar

lho

nub

adzog
abob
ch’en-po
ch’ung-ngu

Remarks on the Sherpa terms

avalanche.

rain.

mist.

sun.

valley, glen; often the valley or district
where a certain person lives.

plain, flat space.

road, route.

bend, the bend of a road or valley.

up above.

down below.

on the right.

on the left.

steep.

easy.

difficult.

high.

good, safe.

bad.

beautiful.

distant.

bridge.

snow- or ice-bridge.

sound, firm (bridge, snow, etc.).

direction.

north. The Sherpas have a good
knowledge of the points of the com-
pass owing to their practice of
telling the time by the sun.

east.

south.

west.

climb!

go down!

big.

little.
188

Sherpa
kale
karpo
serpo
marpo
ngdmpo

nakpo

tangpo
tdnmo

Sherpa Vocabulary

Tibetan
ngang-gis
dkar-ba
serpo
dmar-po
gngo

nag-po
grang-ba
dron-mo

Remarks on the Sherpa terms

slowly, carefully.

white.

yellow.

red.

blue, green (Tibetans scarcely differ-
entiate between these two colours!).

black.

cold.

hot.

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